


after me comes the flood

by yanak324



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, F/M, Family Issues, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, Literary References, Lots of thirst & romance, Multi, Writer's Block, author!Arya, gendrya big bang 2020, lumberjack!Gendry, set in Last Hearth, yes i killed Ned (again) i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanak324/pseuds/yanak324
Summary: Struggling with writer's block, Arya Stark retreats to her late father's cabin in Last Hearth, hoping to finish her second novel.She doesn't anticipate meeting a mysterious yet handsome blue-eyed stranger who lives across the road and has a habit of chopping wood first thing in the morning.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Lyanna Mormont/Rickon Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 271
Kudos: 306
Collections: Still Rowing: A Gendrya Centric Fanfic Collection





	1. i read dead Russian authors

**Author's Note:**

> Oof...so this story has been in my head for most of this wretched year and having a chance to actually publish it as part of the Gendrya Big Bang has been *awesome*. Especially because I've gotten a chance to partner with a talented as hell artist, [Emily](https://thedesignateddriver.tumblr.com), who designed the art below. Could not be more grateful!
> 
> I'm on my usual hype with musical inspiration. Story title inspired by a Regina Spektor song, and each chapter is titled after Third Eye Blind lyrics. 
> 
> As always, I own nothing except my ridiculous need to stuff this with as many literary references as possible. 
> 
> Thank you in advance for reading, please enjoy <3

He wouldn’t have even noticed the newspaper were it not for the sudden gust of wind.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been there, wedged between two empty seats on the bus stop bench, but he can’t look away.

As faded as the photo is, there’s no denying that it’s _her._

Her silver eyes, her shiny brown hair, her way too kissable mouth. And of course, those dark, expressive eyebrows that he still sometimes pictures when he can’t fall asleep.

It’s not just her face he thinks about in those small hours. It’s also her smile, and her voice, and the way she’d slid into his life like she’d belonged there all along, finding every crevice and every crack and filling it with her energy and exuberance.

She’d awoken something inside him, lit a fire underneath him, and he’d gone and fucked it up.

Snuffed it out like a cheap candle; like it hadn’t meant anything.

When in reality, it had meant _everything._

The next uptick in wind wakes him up, chilling him to the bone and cursing his body for not getting acclimated even after so much time spent in the North. He reaches for the newspaper with surprisingly steady hands, flipping to the proper page and then he’s confronted with not only her face but also her body.

Draped like a cat over a plush loveseat, she’s posed in the middle of a sunny room, looking like the pinnacle of calm and perfection. He knows though that she’s playing up for the camera, maintaining her façade.

His ability to recognize the distinction makes him smile in relief.

It’s a reminder that their time together – as brief as it was – wasn’t for naught. That he still knows her, just by looking at one photo.

Perhaps it’s that self-confidence that leaves him unprepared as he starts reading. At first, all he feels is pride, genuine pride that she’s managed to finish her second novel; but the more he reads, the faster his heart starts to beat until it’s thudding like a hammer in his chest.

Briefly, he wonders if maybe this entire interview is a fabrication. There’s just no way she would think and feel these things, not after all this time.

Not after what he did.

And yet –

He’s not sure how much time passes by, but his eyes start to sting by the time he finishes reading the article. Then he reads it again, and again, and again.

There are a million questions swirling in his head and a sudden urge to get them all answered. As if the Gods have heard him, headlights break through the dimness.

During his frantic perusal, he hadn’t even noticed the sun dip below the horizon, but that doesn’t stop him from getting up before the bus even pulls to a stop. It’s almost a Pavlovian reaction at this point; the smell of gasoline, the buzz of the engine, the familiar swoosh as the doors open.

How many busses has he been on in his time?

How many miles of endless road has he crossed, moving from town to town?

He can’t be certain.

He _is_ certain, however, that he’s never met anyone like her. Someone who made him take stock of his life and question why he couldn’t plant roots anywhere; why he’d chosen to live like a vagabond when there were options in front of him.

It’s a miracle that he’s managed to successfully avoid his hometown this entire time, having not returned since he booked it out of Fleabottom with a wad of cash in his pocket and a single duffel to his name.

It’s part of why his imminent return had caused him so much trepidation. But now, as he stares at the open doors and the driver’s expectant scowl as if asking –

_Are you staying or going?_

Gendry doesn’t think twice.

Stuffing the newspaper into his duffel – the same one that’s served him all this time – he gets on, now knowing exactly what he’s going to do when he reaches King’s Landing.

xxx

 _“I don't think all writers are sad, she said._  
_I think it's the other way around—_  
_all sad people write.”_  
\- Lang Leav (author/poet)

xxx

It honestly hadn’t sounded like such a bad idea.

Sure, when Sansa originally suggested it, her encouraging smile clear as day through the computer screen, something like a ten-pound weight dropped on Arya’s stomach, but that was to be expected.

And yes, Rickon’s loud snort from where he’d been lounging on her bed didn’t help matters.

Neither did his sage advice that what she really needed to break through this bout of writer’s block was a good lay; not six months in a remote cabin.

While Arya certainly couldn’t argue with his logic, considering how long it’d been since she’d had a good lay, the other option seemed more realistic.

Even if the initial thought of spending that much time in a cabin her father built with his own two hands made her heart seize painfully.

At least, it was something.

At least, it wasn’t the numbness that had become a constant companion since the day her mother had called and stiffly informed her that her father had died of a heart attack.

Arya thought she’d rage, scream, revolt. All the things she’d been used to doing when life backed her into a corner, but none of that happened.

Instead, a blanket of nothingness fell over her. It was as if her own mind knew she couldn’t deal with the trauma of losing her favorite person in the world, so it shut down.

And it had been like that ever since, which was unfortunate, because she really needed her brain to be fully functioning for her career.

As it turned out, having just one commercial book success wasn’t enough; not when you had a three-book deal with one of the top publishing houses in Westeros.

Even if your sister was married to your agent.

So, Arya had told Sansa she’d think about going to Last Hearth, and assured Marg that she needn’t worry about deadlines.

She’d get it done.

Then she’d closed her laptop and turned to stare out into the Godswood.

The view from her room used to give her comfort but now felt stifling.

“You know you don’t have to do this.”

It had been unsettling to see her normally unhinged baby brother look at her with a wisdom that far belied his age; their mother’s eyes trained on her as he sat up in her bed.

“I know, but it can’t hurt, right?”

She hadn’t expected Rickon to have an answer, but he surprised her. As he’d been known to do ever since their father died.

“No, it can’t but you still don’t have to. You could, you know, just stay here for as long as you like.”

And there it was, what he wasn’t willing to admit. That this house had lost some of its luster, some of its energy with the loss of its patriarch.

Even though Robb and Theon had moved back temporarily, as did Arya, effectively filling the house with more people than it had seen in at least three years, it still felt empty.

They couldn’t replace Ned Stark. No one could.

And so while Arya understood Rickon perfectly, she also knew that there was no way in all the Seven Hells she was going to finish her second book while withering away in her childhood bedroom, unable to move on from their father’s death.

She hadn’t said that to him.

Instead, when he’d gotten a text that made his whole face light up, she’d told him to go “romance his girlfriend.”

And even laughed when he’d sighed dramatically and told her that “Lya will let me do no such thing,” before bounding out of the room.

By the middle of her shift that evening at one of the fancier Stark hotel bars – a job Arya had taken because it was easy and the bougie clientele tipped well – she knew she had to do something.

It had occurred to her precisely at the moment that a particularly obnoxious Stepford Wife signaled for her umpteenth refill of Sauvignon Blanc and Arya had the strongest urge to hurl the martini glass she was polishing straight at the woman’s Botoxed face.

That flair of anger had been the first real emotion she’d felt in so long, it had genuinely scared her; giving her a glimpse into a future that seemed to be slipping away from her.

She quit as soon as her shift was over.

Then she’d texted Sansa to tell her she was going and didn’t even question it when her sister said she’d make all the arrangements, despite being miles away in King’s Landing.

She didn’t give anyone enough time to react, announcing over breakfast the next morning that she’d be leaving for Last Hearth in two days.

To Arya’s surprise, the patented look of disappointment she expected from her mother didn’t come, but she wasn’t so sure the thinly disguised pity felt any better.

Robb was so exhausted these days, she didn’t think he even fully processed it; while Theon had asked for souvenirs.

But it was Rickon who’d tossed the keys to his beloved Jeep to her.

“The roads are gonna get icy up there soon. Your little Prius won’t be able to handle it.”

“I’ll have you know that my little Prius has served me quite well over the years so be nice to her.”

She said while sliding her key to him.

“Don’t really need it,” Rickon had shrugged, leaving them on the table, “Lya drives me most places.”

Theon took this as an invitation to begin teasing Rickon for being whipped, and for a moment, it felt like it used to. Like rowdy Sunday brunches and long family dinners with whoever happened to be in town.

And yet the chair at the head of the table remained glaringly empty, and the way Arya’s heart lurched painfully at that told her that she made the right call leaving.

Yeah, it did seem like a good idea at the time.

At least until her first morning in Last Hearth, when she is awoken at the ass crack of dawn by an unfamiliar but altogether startling noise.

_Thwack_

In a vain hope that the noise will stop, Arya burrows deeper into the covers and tries to get back to sleep.

No such luck.

_Thwack, thwack, thwack_

“What the fuck?” she says to the still morning air and reluctantly sits up.

She’d gotten in late last night, with barely enough energy to brush her teeth, change into a t-shirt, and fall face first on the bed in the closest bedroom. The one she knows for certain her father never slept in when he used to come here.

The sun’s barely out now, not even high enough to cast any meaningful light into the room. For a few blessedly silent moments, Arya thinks she might actually be able to go back to sleep but –

_Thwack_

_Thwack_

It feels a little bit like a hammer hitting the side of her head, reminding her that she’d barely gotten four hours of sleep after driving five hours straight through.

Frustrated, she makes her way out of the room to go investigate the noise, following the sound until she reaches the front door and swings it open.

The gust of cooler air stops her from pushing the screen door as well, which is really for the best because when she looks across the road, her jaw drops involuntarily.

Arya has gotten used to being the shortest person in any room, having to crane her head up to look at most people. It’s still a shock when she realizes that the man standing across the road has got to be at least a foot and a half taller than her.

What’s more, he looks fit as fuck; broad shoulders and bulging arms pleasantly stretching his tight t-shirt; a pair of faded jeans that hang way too low on his hips and massive brown boots.

He’s not paying attention to her, too focused on balancing a large chunk of wood on the stump in front of him, but Arya can’t look away to save her life.

She’s absolutely transfixed by the way he leans back to appraise his work; how his jeans stretch across his backside as he bends down to grab the axe that seems to have materialized out of nowhere.

When he raises it above his head and brings it down with the resounding thwack, splitting the wood as easily as a crack of thunder would, it reverberates through her entire body, sending heat trickling down her spine.

She now knows what woke her up but it seems like a distant memory; trumped by the flush that spreads across her face and neck as she watches him strike the axe again and again.

When he stops to take a break, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, it gives her a chance to take in the rest of him – the untamed black hair, the generous beard lining what she assumes is a perfectly chiseled jaw.

His expression, intense and determined even in profile, inspires a myriad of treacherous thoughts that snap her out of her ogling.

Before he can catch her creeping, Arya shuts the front door, and exhales against it, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

She'd fled to this remote town to find concentration and peace, only to end up with a hot neighbor who she already knows will be a Gods damn distraction and a half.

Rickon and Sansa were going to have a field day with this.

xxx

Luckily, it turns out that chopping wood is not a very long activity. Neither is it an everyday thing.

The thwacking sound wakes Arya up only a couple mornings during her first week in Last Hearth.

Each time she gets up and slinks her way to the kitchen, she does it under the pretense of getting her day started.

But it’s difficult to deny that she’s rising with the sun for probably the first time in her life to catch a glimpse of the man who keeps popping into her thoughts whenever her mind wanders.

It doesn’t help that the kitchen window faces his cabin, giving her the perfect opportunity to sneak glances at him as she powers on the coffee machine and chugs water to stay awake.

On the third day of what can only be described as gratuitous spying, caffeine becomes unnecessary as the mystery bearded man pulls the hem of his t-shirt up to wipe down his face and treats Arya to the sight of the nicest abs she’s ever seen.

It’s just a peek but her mouth still goes dry at the exposure of so much hard muscle and the finest lining of dark hair disappearing beneath his belt. In the middle of her gaping, it dawns on her that he is facing in her direction, and she is by no means invisible.

She ducks immediately out of view.

And while she’s crouched behind the counter like some bloody teenager who got caught sneaking out of the house past curfew, Arya feels the first true surge of irritation towards the man.

The sheer audacity, she thinks, to look like that and spring it on unsuspecting bystanders like herself.

Deciding that it’s absolutely not her fault for gawking at him, Arya leaves the kitchen without making coffee; determined to focus her energies on something else – like getting some writing done.

She doesn’t look over her shoulder, not once as she walks to the bathroom to grab a shower.

It’s a shame really because what she would find is the man staring in her direction for a beat longer than necessary, an entirely too amused look on his face before he picks up his axe again.

xxx

The writing doesn’t come easily. If at all, really.

She wasn’t expecting it to, but the useless feeling that comes with the mental block is all the more consuming when she’s got nothing to distract her.

Okay, well that’s not entirely true.

Last Hearth is a small but pleasant town. Situated in a deeply forested area just east of the Kingsroad, it’s surrounded by three bodies of water, making it a perfect destination for all sorts of outdoor activities.

At the cusp of autumn, the smell of vegetation lingers in the air, but the edge of humidity is gone, replaced by a freshness that suggests colder weather is ahead.

All in all, it reminds Arya of a different time; a time of innocence, of exploration. When she could spend all day outdoors breathing the distinct scent of the North and imagining herself to be a fierce warrior who protected the woods from outlaws and thieves.

But the more she hikes through the nearby trails and the more time she spends sitting on the bank of the Last River, watching her own reflection in the clear water, the more she thinks of her father.

How sometimes when she’d tag along with him on his fishing trips, he’d let her wade in the too cold water and then gorge herself on s’mores until her stomach hurt.

How on the rare occasion that her brothers would join them, he would gather them all around a campfire and tell ghost stories until they shrieked with fear-laced laughter. How he would let them camp outside even though they had perfectly good beds to sleep in.

Being inside the cabin doesn’t do much to push these thoughts away. She keeps the door to his bedroom firmly closed, but the living room with its shelves of books and the comfy throw draped over his favorite armchair still gnaws at that emptiness in her heart; the place he used to occupy.

She tries to fill it by perusing the myriad of tomes that defined her literary education.

Her love of literature and by extension writing started right in this cabin. In this room, during the quiet nights her father spent reading to her from whatever book she’d closed her eyes and pointed at.

Ned Stark was a fan of the classics. Everything from Chaucer to Shakespeare to Garcia Marquez and Tolstoy sits in a neat line atop the mahogany wood plank that she’d helped him put up when he first brought her here.

Seeing her own novel standing proudly between faded copies of _Treasure Island_ and _Empire of the Sun_ tugs at her heart strings in a way that makes it difficult to breathe.

It makes her question her decision to come here. All the more when she sits in front of her laptop, the cursor blinking accusingly at her from the corner of an empty page.

Her sister with her seemingly unending supply of optimism has a million suggestions for what Arya could do to break out of her funk. And Arya is only half listening as she stands at the kitchen counter, phone wedged in between her shoulder and her ear as she boils water for tea.

It’s late in the day. The sun, already making its descend, paints the skyline with pink and orange brush strokes, creating an atmosphere so tranquil, so still, Sansa’s voice becomes almost melodic after a while.

The sound of an engine approaching ultimately snaps Arya out of her reverie. She watches with rapt attention as the battered old tractor that usually sits parked in front of the cabin across the road rolls into the its rightful spot.

It just so happens that Sansa asks her a question at the same time that the driver’s door swings open revealing her human alarm clock in all his devastatingly rugged glory.

He’s wearing a beanie this time. When he pulls it off his head to run his fingers through very thick and very messing looking hair, Arya decides enough is enough and finally checks back into her conversation.

“Sorry, what’d you say?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Clearly not since I asked you to repeat yourself.”

Her sister’s exasperated sigh is almost comforting. Arya holds back a snicker, knowing Sansa won’t take kindly to her laughing.

“I was asking if you’d considered going to out to socialize.”

“With who?”

Her eyes unwittingly turn back to the window, just in time to catch a glimpse of her neighbor entering his home.

“And where? There are like ten people in total who live here.”

“Arya c’mon, it’s a small town sure, but I’m looking at a map right now and there’s pub just a few blocks away from you. Called Giant’s Gates. Promise me you’ll check it out. Even if just for a pint?”

She’d seen the pub when she’d walked through town a few days ago, but it hadn’t called to her whatsoever. Yet the idea of having a beer and maybe chatting with a few locals doesn’t seem like the worst use of her night. Especially if it means less time spent staring at her laptop screen.

The kettle whistles then, the sharp sound startling but also solidifying her decision.

“Okay fine. One beer but then I get to go home.”

“Make it a whiskey and I will hold Marg off for a few more days.”

“Done.”

Sansa quickly shifts their conversation towards the latest gossip in the capital, and while Arya couldn’t care less which Lannisters are rumored to be fucking each other, she welcomes the distraction.

At least this one doesn’t give her hot flashes.

For that alone, she’s grateful.

xxx

Arya’s first impression of Giant’s Gates is how much the name belies its actual size.

The only thing remotely giant about the pub, which has barely enough room for five high tops, a pool table and a jukebox that’s seen better days is the young man behind the wood-paneled bar, pouring beer.

Or at least trying to.

He’s obscenely tall, but lanky and with a ginger coloring that speaks of Wilding roots. Arya watches him struggle for a few minutes, before sliding into one of the vacant stools opposite the beer tap.

“You need to tilt the glass a bit and then gently ease the lever. Don’t pull.”

The kid looks up, blue eyes alarmed and a little wary, which Arya tries to mollify with a gentle smile.

“Want me to show you?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Balancing on the edge of her stool step, she stretches across the bar and shows him how to tilt the glass properly. She instructs him to hold it while she lightly pushes the lever down, just enough for the beer to come out in a steady, non-foamy stream.

“Th-, thanks.” He says shyly after the pint is full. He passes it to an older gentleman sitting on the other end of the bar before turning back to her.

“No problem. My name’s Arya. What’s yours?”

“Dormund.” He replies, this time more assertively, revealing hints of a Wildling accent.

For a moment, she thinks about Jon, up at the Wall, probably channeling his grief towards something more productive than sitting in a bar.

“Nice, you manning the place alone?” she asks instead.

“No, my da’s in the back but says the place’s not full enough for two people behind the bar so he’s doing some paperwork and I’m – “

He pauses awkwardly again then, one skinny, freckled arm falling behind his head as he scratches the back of his neck.

Arya decides to take pity on him.

“You’re stuck dealing with the tap alone. Gotcha. Well, I won’t make you pour me beer. Got any whiskey back there?”

Dormund’s face breaks into a smile as he nods eagerly.

“Yup, the house option is great. Da makes it himself.”

“I’ll take it on some ice then. You can handle it, right?”

“Absolutely.”

He returns a few minutes later with a lowball glass filled halfway with auburn liquid.

“How much do I owe you?” Arya asks after he places it on a coaster in front of her.

“It’s on the house, for helping me.”

“Alright, but I’m not drinking for free all night.”

He returns her smile with a nod, before moving to a waiting customer.

Arya nurses the whiskey for a while, watching silently as Dormund moves back and forth across the bar, handling the tap with far more finesse than when she first came in.

When there are nothing but dredges of ice left in her glass, another one appears magically in front of her.

Over the course of her second drink, the bar fills up exponentially. The stools around her become occupied; the chatter raises up an octave or two, as does the music from jukebox.

Before Arya realizes it, the place is booming.

This unfortunately means the line for drinks starts to get longer and longer. Although Dormund manages to keep up with the demand for a while, Arya can tell when it all becomes too much for him.

She’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the fact that this kid reminds her of her own brothers, but she decides to take pity on him before he has a full blown meltdown.

Chasing the remainder of her drink, she hops off the stool and ducks under the bar flap.

“What are you doing?” Dormund shouts over the noise, a legitimate edge of panic to his voice.

“You take this side, I’ll that one, and send all the beer drinkers to me. It’ll be faster that way.”

She doesn’t give him time to tell her no, slipping past him to the side with the tap and starting to take orders.

From the periphery of her vision, she sees Dormund gaze at her in suspicion, but once she serves one customer and punches the right keys into the cash register to grab change, he seems to relax and returns to his task.

They work in tandem for a while, cranking open bottles of cider, pouring shots of whiskey and pints of draft beers. The crowd around the bar thins out eventually, and Dormund takes the opportunity to hand her a much-needed glass of water.

“Thanks.”

Arya takes a long sip, suddenly feeling both her thirst and exhaustion. Even on busy nights at the hotel bar, it wasn’t this hectic, always leaving her with entirely too much time for her mind to wander and fixate on all the ways her life was going down the toilet.

As she drains the glass, she realizes it’s the first time in a long while that she feels like she’s accomplished something.

“Where’d you learn to bartend like that?” Dormund asks as he refills her glass.

Arya’s about to respond when the back door swings open with a loud bang and a man who is quite possibly taller than Dormund and twice as broad in the shoulders steps out.

He immediately fixes her with a scrutinizing stare beneath bushy orange eyebrows.

“Who’re you?”

“Name’s Arya Stark. I was –“

He doesn’t let her continue, blue eyes lighting up in recognition as his mouth stretches behind his thick beard.

“Stark? Any relation to Ned Stark?”

“Yes. He was my dad.”

Arya says it without hesitation and is surprised that the usual stab of pain doesn’t follow. It must be the way the man’s eyes soften immediately following her words.

“Ah, I heard about his passing. My condolences, kid. Your da was a great man. Stopped in for a pint or two every time he was up here. Ya in his cabin off Cherry Road?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the name’s Tormund Giantsbane, and you met ‘me youngest boy?”

He throws a glance over at Dormund, who looks uncomfortable again. Arya shoots him what she hopes is a comforting smile.

“I did, yeah. Good kid you’ve got here, manning the bar all by himself.”

Tormund looks unconvinced, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eye. He shoots a look at his son before turning to her again, crossing his massive arms over his chest.

It makes Arya wonder if everyone in this town is oversized, or if it’s just her.

“‘Me youngest usually keeps this place a’running, but she’s traveling abroad, so I got this dimwit tryin’ to pour pints for people.”

There’s an unmistakable hint of affection in Tormund’s voice despite the words, which only serves to make Dormund more uncomfortable.

“It’s no bother really. It got super busy and I’ve tended bar before, so figured I’d help. Got some good tips out of it.”

Arya pats down her shirt pocket for emphasis, and it seems to appease her new boss.

“Alright, well we close at 2 and you’re welcome to work as long as you like.”

Tormund claps her on the shoulder before raising a finger at Dormund, clearly in a show of mock intimidation more than anything else.

“Don’t let ‘er pay for any drinks and definitely don’t let ‘er help you clean up.”

Dormund gulps as he nods in agreement, and then sidesteps his dad as the latter disappears behind the door again, mumbling something about the pains of bookkeeping and accounting.

“Sorry about him, he’s a little grumpy. Munda helped him with the books too.”

“It’s okay,” Arya says with an encouraging smile, and when she spots a few more patrons entering the bar, uses it as an opportunity to alleviate some of the awkward tension.

“Let’s get back to work, ya?” she says, and Dormund agrees, returning to his side of the bar, though not before sliding a full glass of water and a bowl of nuts in her direction.

“On the house.”

It takes Arya only a second to realize he’s joking but Dormund’s already moved on.

She shoves a handful of nuts into her mouth, chases them with some water, and gets back to work.

xxx

Throughout the course of the night, the crowd only grows, making Arya think there has got to be at least two or three fire safety violations occurring at any given time.

The people of Last Hearth don’t seem like the type to care about that sort of thing though, and Arya herself doesn’t actually have time to dwell on it.

Even with two bartenders, there never seems to be a moment of respite.

And yet she doesn’t mind.

It might be the people or the energy of the place, but even something as simple as stacking dirty pint glasses into the washer, which she absolutely hated doing at her old job, doesn’t bother her.

It’s nearing midnight when there’s enough of a lull that she can check her phone. There’s a text from Sansa, sent hours ago, and Arya’s in the middle of responding when she feels eyes on her.

She looks up, scanning the bar, and her belly does an unexpected swoop when her gaze collides with the one that she now feels on every inch of her face.

There’s no mistaking that the man sitting on the other end of the bar is the same one she’s been unabashedly ogling every other morning.

Same unruly black hair, same thick beard, and the same massive arms now draped casually over the bar top as he continues to appraise her.

Just the intensity of the look alone has Arya feeling things she has absolutely no business feeling.

She wills herself to look away, but it’s nearly impossible.

Not when his magnetizing eyes are unwavering, even as he raises the beer to his lips and takes a long pull. The action draws her attention to his hands, which also happen to be stupidly large, making the bottle appear almost dainty in his grasp.

Before she can properly reflect on what those hands would feel like on her, a woman sidles up to the bar asking for a vodka soda, and Arya quickly springs into action.

Dormund has him covered so it’s easy to physically avoid the hulking man sitting silently by himself. Too bad, her mind doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

Every chance she gets, her eyes flicker in his direction, and something warm passes through her at how blatantly he stares back.

She tries not to think about it, hoping in vain that he’ll finish his drink and leave, but he stays long after his bottle is empty. Dormund eventually switches it for a glass of water but he drains that as well, maintaining his spot.

The longer he stays there, the more irritated Arya becomes.

Who does he think he is?

Sitting there like that, all relaxed and beardy, and staring at her unabashedly every chance he has?

Briefly, she wonders if maybe he noticed her spying on him and is exacting his own form of revenge, but she quickly shelves that ridiculous thought away.

No one is insane enough to do that, except maybe her. And well, she’s not going down that mental rabbit hole any time soon.

She decides to do her best to ignore him, and for the most part it works. Up until Dormund announces he’s taking a bathroom break, and short of asking the poor kid to hold it, there’s not much Arya can do to avoid the bearded stranger.

The second Dormund disappears to the back, the source of her annoyance raises his empty water glass, leaving Arya with no choice but to approach him.

_Fucking hells._

She’s been known to have a pretty decent poker face. Some would say she’s even famous for it, but all that goes out the window as soon as she comes close enough to clearly see his eyes.

It’s not just that they’re the most beautiful shade of blue Arya thinks she’s ever seen. It’s also the way they crinkle in amusement, and how the rest of his face shifts into something that her treacherous mind chooses to interpret as appreciation as he gives her a blatant onceover.

And maybe it’s the fact that she’s not at all uncomfortable or weirded out by his obvious staring that has her leaning in and briskly addressing him.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Just a water, thanks.”

Something about his fast answer needles her.

“Just a water?”

“Yeah, is that a problem?”

“No,” she grabs his glass and without tearing her eyes away, fills it with ice and then water.

The way he keeps staring at her, looking for all the world like nothing can touch him, irks her just enough.

“But you know this is a bar right?”

“Yes, I am aware.”

Arya does a better job of suppressing an eyeroll than she does in staving off the heat that his teasing inflection prompts.

It must be why she makes a comment a bartender could definitely be fired for.

“So you know, maybe order something else instead of taking up space?”

He doesn’t seem offended though, smirking back at her as he gestures towards a mostly empty bar with one of his huge arms.

“I don’t think I’m inconveniencing anyone.”

The reply is entirely smug and throws Arya a little off kilter, wiping her usually sharp mind of anything witty to say. Luckily, Dormund chooses that moment to return.

She’s already turning back to her own side of the bar when the blue-eyed stranger calls after her.

“Do I get a name at least?”

“Did you earn one?” She quips back without thinking and is surprised when he doesn’t look put off.

“What if I order a beer next time?”

And it’s more his smile than anything, the way it lights up his face, that has her own lips quirking unwittingly as she shrugs at him.

“Maybe. Come back and find out.”

It only occurs to her much later, after the man has already paid and left, that the entire exchange could have been misconstrued as flirting.

The thought doesn’t scare her as much as it makes her curious, and she turns to Dormund.

“That guy, in the gray flannel, who sat in your section for a while. You know him?”

“Oh yeah, Gendry Waters. Good guy. Mostly keeps to himself.”

The redhead looks up from where he’s polishing his glass to regard her for a moment.

“Why?”

“No reason, just curious.” she replies quickly, and is happy to find that at least with some people she’s still able to retain her stoic façade.

A moment later, Dormund slips underneath the bar flap to go mop the floors, leaving Arya alone.

_Gendry Waters, huh._

It suits him, she thinks, as she tries to wipe down a particularly stubborn stain.

It comes off much faster than the smile that refuses to leave her face for the rest of the night.

xxx


	2. volumes at a time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dinner then.” 
> 
> She’s close enough now that she can lay a hand on his chest, see if his heart is beating at the same rate as hers. The way he regards her, cerulean gaze briefly dipping down to her lips, suggests that it might be. 
> 
> “I’d love to.” 
> 
> Arya lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely, positively overwhelmed by the feedback on this little story of mine. 
> 
> Huge thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos, and bookmarks. I'd like to also recognize the amazing [Emily](https://thedesignateddriver.tumblr.com) for designing the art for each chapter. She really brought my vision to life and I could not be more blessed! 
> 
> As always, I own nothing but my wild muse and her antics. She's up for sale if anyone's interested. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please enjoy <3

xxx

 _“As soon as I saw you, I knew a grand adventure_  
_was about to happen.”_  
\- A.A. Milne (author of _Winnie the Pooh_ )

xxx

Arya never intended to become a writer.

It was just something that happened.

Her favorite book growing up had been _Gulliver’s Travels_.

It might have taken her several years and plenty of rereads to fully grasp the satirical elements of the story; but the idea of exploration, of discovering new places and people, and learning to embrace difference – well that, she’d gotten immediately.

It stayed with her through school, and university, and then through her work travels as an interpreter. Percolating and taking root until one evening, in yet another nondescript hotel room, she’d sat down and had without thinking, written what would become the basis for her first novel.

Writing had been easier then; words spilling out of her onto any available surface. Her phone, her notebooks, even discarded paper napkins covered in coffee rings and crumbs.

She simply couldn’t stop, taking every free minute to continue telling a story of an exiled princess fighting to reclaim her home and meeting all sorts of characters along the way.

Arya never thought it would amount to anything.

Just a hobby she could dive into while on the road. One day though, she didn’t have any more story to tell, and what looked back at her was something that had potential.

Something her father – the only person she’d shared it with – encouraged her to pursue. He’d left the decision entirely in her hands, not pressuring her or offering to use his connections to secure her an agent.

Arya had ultimately decided not to use her own name, submitting her drafts under a pseudonym to make sure that she had truly earned this.

It was pure coincidence that the only publishing house that showed an interest in her fantasy adventure tale had been Tyrell Rose Publications. When her manuscript landed on her sister-in-law’s desk, it became difficult to keep her plans from her family.

But that had been the extent of her circle.

Even with Margaery convinced the book could become a massive hit, Arya refused to do any press for it; determined to hold onto her anonymity. She didn’t even quit her job until after her novel made the bestseller list.

Riding the high of success, she’d signed a three-book deal with Tyrell Rose. When Margaery had proposed doing a bit more press for the second novel and potentially even a book tour, which would necessitate her dropping her pseudonym, Arya had reservations.

Her father had been the one to convince her to do it, reminding her that a book tour basically combined her two favorite things: travel and meeting new people.

It wasn’t that simple, Arya had known then, but her dad made it seem like the easiest choice she could make.

He’d always known the right thing to say, or more like the right way to say it to her to quell the nagging voice in her head; the one that made her second guess everything.

She wasn’t so surprised then, that his death had brought on the worst case of writer’s block she’d ever had.

Without him to lend her an ear, that same voice got louder and louder, until she couldn’t hear her own ideas anymore; let alone managed to get them down on paper.

And though the deadline is still very much looming, the lack of progress Arya makes on her book in her first few months in Last Hearth doesn’t bother her very much.

It might be that nobody here actually knows that she’s the author of one of the most successful young adult novels of the last decade; though she suspects they wouldn’t care either way.

Or it might just be her criminally hot next door neighbor, who keeps occupying too much of her headspace to be deemed appropriate.

After her first night at the pub, Tormund offered her a couple shifts a week. Whether by coincidence or something else, Gendry has shown up every night.

He mostly keeps to himself, and always stops at one beer. But he lingers long after, sitting in Arya’s section and patiently accepting a water refill every so often.

Initially, she thought she’d find it annoying, or maybe even unsettling, given that her routine still involved surreptitiously objectifying him over her morning coffee, but his presence turns out to be pretty comforting.

And if she occasionally fixates on how much his folded arms strain against the tight sleeves of whatever lightweight flannel he’s chosen to wear that day, well, she’s not blind.

In all their conversing though, as light as it is, Arya is still surprised that Gendry never asks her any of the standard questions. Like what she’s doing in Last Hearth, how long she’s staying, or even why she’s working at Giant’s Gates.

He seems perfectly content spending his time flirting with her and occasionally taking bets on how long it will take until Dormund inevitably sprays some sort of liquor on himself.

The kid’s rampant desire to appease his father makes him a shaky mess half the time, leading to accidents that they have entirely too much fun anticipating.

He also has a tendency to overshare, which helps feed Arya’s curiosity about the bearded man who remains just as much of a mystery weeks later as he was the first time she laid eyes on him.

All she has to do is ask Dormund one question about Gendry and he fires off a list of everything he knows, which admittedly isn’t much.

Aside from helping the Umbers with their timber trade, Gendry is apparently good with his hands – for whatever that means – and often helps fix things around the pub.

And while he’s generally pleasant and polite, he doesn’t really socialize much. In fact, in all the time he’s been in Last Hearth, give or take six months, Gendry has apparently been to the bar only a handful of times.

Arya didn’t exactly need confirmation that he’d started showing up to spend time with her, but it’s still nice to hear it.

Especially since the spark she’d felt that first night they met has somehow become a full-fledged fire, exacerbated by the way Gendry’s sea-colored gaze still manages to follow her around the room.

And yet, these moments are but threads through a tapestry of interactions that on the whole have just made her feel like herself again.

Being around Gendry is easy, comfortable, evoking the sense that nothing can touch her. He also seems genuinely interested in what she has to say.

For all those reasons, Arya is more than happy to limit their interactions to the few hours during her shifts.

Well that, and she still has a smidgen of guilt over how she’d essentially been spying on him for the better part of a week before she ever even spoke to him.

She assumes Gendry is on the same page, which is why she isn’t expecting him to be waiting for her when she leaves the bar one night.

“Gods, you scared me.”

“Sorry.”

Arya watches him push off the wall, a sheepish expression on his face.

“It’s cool,” she assures him quickly, and tries not to fixate on how vibrant his eyes are against the dark canopy of the nighttime sky.

“Was thinking I could walk you home?”

Even with his slightly uncertain tone, Arya can’t help but tease.

“What? You think I can’t take care of myself?”

The quick onceover he gives her – as if to appraise whether she can in fact take care of herself – makes her face flush instantly.

Gendry doesn’t seem to notice, too distracted in searching for a response as his long fingers scratch at his beard.

“Never mind,” she decides to put him out his misery, “c’mon, I’m dead on my feet.”

He falls into step without a word, and they walk in silence, the crunch of their footsteps against the pavement the only sound breaking up the tranquility of the small hours.

The assured way Gendry walks though, like he knows the way, makes Arya stop after a few minutes.

“How do you know where I live?”

Despite being a foot taller than her, Gendry still appears chastened. His hand lands on the back of his neck, only serving to accentuate the size of his bicep as he finally answers her.

“I kinda, well, I noticed you before, in your house. I live across the street.”

Arya doesn’t mean to laugh, but it’s nearly impossible not to. She doesn’t do a good job of hiding it either, barely looking away to conceal her amusement.

“What’s so funny?”

Gendry’s voice comes out soft, much softer than she anticipated and the humor drains out of her when she catches the confusion swimming in his eyes.

The instinct to be honest with him – regardless of how embarrassed she might be – throws her a little off kilter. Just another sign that something bigger is brewing between them.

Whatever this is though, Arya isn’t ready to confront it.

“Nothing.”

A hint of wariness passes across Gendry’s face before dissolving into mirth.

“I feel like there’s some inside joke I’m not a part of.”

 _Oh, if only he knew,_ Arya thinks to herself before spinning on her heel to keep going.

When they reach her cabin, there’s a moment when she wonders if Gendry might kiss her but he just stares at her for a beat longer than necessary and bids her good night.

It’s not really anything in the grand scheme of things, but after that, there doesn’t seem to be a reason to hide from him.

The next time he inadvertently wakes her up, instead of peeking at him from behind the lackluster blinds of her kitchen window, Arya brings her coffee out to the front porch.

Gendry doesn’t look all that surprised to see her, flashing her a smile before wiping the sweat off his forehead and returning to his task; acting like they’ve been doing this all along.

Over the next few weeks, that’s exactly what it becomes.

A routine.

Him chopping wood and tinkering around the front yard, doing whatever it is that he has to that day, while Arya sits on the porch swing, legs draped over the railing as she sips her coffee and throws him the occasional smile.

When he’s done, he’ll usually drop his oversized body onto the front steps and talk to her until there are only dredges left in her cup and the sun is high in the sky.

He always seems just as reluctant to leave as Arya is to see him go, and each time he lingers a little longer, she thinks about inviting him inside.

She never does, not yet certain she’s ready to let him – or really anyone else – into the space that holds so much meaning.

That doesn’t take away from the rush she feels at his poorly concealed impatience and reluctance to step off the porch and get into his truck.

Arya knows it’s only a matter of time before she lets him in.

She just doesn’t anticipate it happening quite like it does.

xxx

It’s a particularly dreary morning in late October when Arya wakes up long before Gendry has a chance to rouse her with the sound of his axe.

She doesn’t bother getting up.

Instead, she rolls over, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over her head in some vain hope that she can stay in bed for the foreseeable future.

She’d been in a good mood the day before, feeling invigorated by a sudden and unexpected burst of inspiration that allowed her to get a good chunk of writing done.

By late afternoon, wanting to take a break and noticing a layer of dust blanketing nearly every surface of the cabin, Arya had gotten it in her head that she should clean.

She put on some tunes, rolled up her sleeves and gotten out a couple rags from the linen closet. She thought Sansa would be especially proud of her being adult enough to locate the cleaning supplies.

She was making decent progress, even finding a step ladder to use to reach the higher shelves in the kitchen. Everything quickly went to hell when she tried to dust the bookshelf in the living room.

She’d meant to remove all the books and restack once she’d dusted it, but she hadn’t counted on the semi-loose screw that sent the entire shelf – and all the remaining tomes – tumbling over the couch and onto the floor, cracking one of the windows in the process.

A few moments after it happened, Arya just stood still, staring at the mess she’d made.

Then, there was a flash of her father in her mind’s eye, smiling at her as he slid the last book into place and all her carefully constructed walls shattered.

The rest of the night passed in a blur.

There might’ve been a bottle of wine involved, definitely more than a few tears shed, which would account for both her splitting headache and the tightness in her face as she squints against the early morning sun.

Arya is no stranger to days like this. Has seen plenty of them in the last year, but none in the time she’s been in Last Hearth.

Maybe she’d naively thought she was past it, but clearly not, since something so minor – easily reversible – has set her off so much.

It’s not just a bookshelf, she knows that, but her reaction to it all still makes her feel weak.

And if there’s one thing Arya Stark hates feeling, it’s weakness.

Yet she’s powerless against the stinging in her eyes as she thinks about how unlike the bookshelf and the cracked window, both of which could be fixed, her father isn’t coming back.

He won’t be there to congratulate her on the publication of her second book – if she ever gets there. And he won’t be there for any other life defining moments either.

Despite not having a gods damn clue where her life is even going at this point, the reminder is all consuming.

It swallows her whole, a fresh wave of pain prompting her to burrow further into the covers and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Too bad the world doesn’t care.

The knock is so faint at first, Arya swears she’d imagined it. She holds her breath, hoping whoever is at the door will go away.

The longer she lies perfectly still, wishing for the sound to dissipate, the louder and more insistent it becomes, infuriating her more than the anger she holds for herself.

She scrambles out of bed, determined to tell whoever it is to fuck right off so she can go back to wallowing in self-pity and grief.

Driven purely by irritation, Arya doesn’t bother checking the peep hole, swinging the front door open and then the screen.

As soon as she sees who it is, standing on her front porch, whatever reproach she had planned dies on her lips.

“Hey.”

It takes her just a second to compute that Gendry has spoken to her, but it’s long enough for him to start shifting uncomfortably, gaze dancing all over as he rubs his beard.

It’s this awkwardness in him, that doesn’t quite gel with the rest of him, that ultimately breaks Arya out of her stupor. She sinks against the door as she regards him.

“Hi.”

He seems to exhale in relief when she finally responds, but there’s still worry on his face. The usual discomfort that follows the realization that someone might be concerned for her doesn’t come.

“I, umm, sorry if I bothered you. It’s just you didn’t show and I-”

Gendry’s stilted explanation fully distracts her from the turmoil in her head. As does the amusing revelation that he’s trying his best to keep from looking at her bare legs.

“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t get up today.”

She doesn’t elaborate further.

He might inspire very strange and new feelings in her, but they’re not enough to get her talking about why exactly she couldn’t get out of bed this morning. At least not yet.

It turns out Gendry doesn’t need an explanation. His gaze flickers somewhere beyond her right shoulder, and his entire demeanor changes, panic seeping in as he steps closer.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

He looks as if he’s seeing her for the first time, studying her face as if checking for injury.

It might be early but it instantly dawns on Arya that having seen the disaster that is her living room, he’s undoubtedly jumped to conclusions.

Before his mind can run amok, she nods emphatically.

“I’m alright. I just had an accident while cleaning yesterday.”

“Oh.”

His relief is palpable, but there’s still an edge of disbelief there. He may have a problem formulating words on occasion but Arya’s pretty certain he sees everything including the traces of tears on her face.

She expects him to probe her, to push her for more answers than she’s willing to give, much like everyone else in her life, but he surprises her.

“I could help fix it.”

Her head snaps up from where she’d been studying her toes, surprise tangible enough for Gendry to backtrack.

“That is if you want.”

She’s not prepared for the surge of adoration his offer inspires.

It warms her from head to toe, dulling the gnawing in her chest, and prompting her to step aside.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

They’ve known each other for less than two months, and yet Arya knows that the way Gendry smiles back at her in this moment is rare; about as rare as the enthusiasm with which he tells her he’ll be right back with his toolbox.

By the time he returns, Arya’s splashed some water on her face, brushed her teeth and has the coffee maker running.

It doesn’t occur to her put some pants on, and she doesn’t give herself time to reflect on it as she perches at the kitchen counter and watches him work.

The irony isn’t lost on her though. Somehow they’re right back where they started: her ogling him as he does manual labor.

As much as she would normally scoff at the idea of a man literally fixing her problems, something about how naturally Gendry fits into her space, how diligently he cleans up the mess she made, makes her heart stutter for reasons other than grief or pain.

And it feels good, which of course completely throws off her brain to mouth filter.

“Breakfast.”

She blurts out when Gendry finally closes his toolbox.

“What?” he turns to her, face once again twisted in confusion.

“I can cook you some breakfast, as a thank you for this.”

Arya gestures to where the bookshelf is once again upright, the books neatly lined in a row; the window taped up to be replaced later.

“I can’t. I gotta be at the lumberyard in 20.”

He looks almost sheepish, most definitely apologetic, and that’s what drives her to hop off the stool and come up to him.

“Dinner then.”

She’s close enough now that she can lay a hand on his chest, see if his heart is beating at the same rate as hers. The way he regards her, cerulean gaze briefly dipping down to her lips, suggests that it might be.

“I’d love to.”

Arya lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Good. Come back after work then?”

Gendry nods and picks up his toolbox.

He’s almost at the door when she calls after him again.

“Thank you, again. I really appreciate it.”

He turns to look at her, and despite the distance between them, his expression still manages to reel her in.

So much so that Arya almost doesn’t hear him reply with “you’re welcome,” before he steps out the door.

She’s still standing at the kitchen counter minutes later when the sound of his truck’s engine slices through her musings.

Her heartbeat’s refusal to slow down makes it very difficult to ignore just how badly she’s got it.

xxx

With the weather taking a cooler turn, for dinner, Arya makes a fish curry reminiscent of her favorite hole in the wall restaurant in King’s Landing.

The smell of spices filling the cabin leaves her feeling properly nostalgic, erasing remnants of the shitty day, and lifting her mood to a level of exuberance that has her dancing around the kitchen as she puts finishing touches on the stew.

It’s doesn’t occur to her until Gendry’s knocking on her door, a bottle of red wine in one hand while the other scratches nervously at his beard that she doesn’t even know if the man eats fish let alone likes spicy food.

As she learns very quickly, her fears are unfounded.

She’d assumed Gendry was a good eater; anyone who looked like _that_ had to have a healthy appetite.

Watching the absolute delight on his usually taciturn face as he mops up the last of his curry makes Arya stupidly pleased, and ridiculously warm.

Though that, she surmises, could be blamed on her third glass of wine and the fact that she and Gendry are sitting so close at her kitchen counter, that her thigh is practically wedged between his legs.

It’s not the most comfortable but Arya refuses to budge.

Gendry doesn’t either, despite having to twist his enormous body to face both her and his food.

“This is absolutely delicious.”

He wipes his mouth and tosses the napkin onto the plate.

“Kinda reminds me of home.”

“Oh?”

In all their time of knowing each other, they’ve never once broached the subject of his past, and Arya desperately wants to know everything.

“And where’s home exactly?”

A less keen observer wouldn’t spot his sudden wariness, but Arya has spent weeks staring at him, so she notes it immediately.

“King’s Landing.” Gendry finally responds after taking a sip of water, “Fleabottom actually.”

“No way.”

She has a better understanding now of why he may want to keep his upbringing private but just having this bit in common makes her unduly excited.

“I lived in King’s Landing for almost 5 years. It was easier to have it as my home base for all the work travel.”

Whatever dark cloud had momentarily settled over Gendry lifts as he turns completely towards her, thighs sliding against hers and sending a spark of heat up her spine.

“Oh yeah? Where did work take you?”

And just like that, he has her sharing stories about all the places she’s been to in Essos, the people she’s met, the local sites she’s gotten to visit, her favorite beaches.

Eventually they move to the living room, and it’s when Gendry’s standing in front of the bookshelf, admiring the hard covers – some of which are first editions – that he turns to her with a question.

“You weren’t always a writer then?”

Arya resolutely ignores how his long fingers trace the spine of her novel as she shakes her head.

“No, not always. But I’ve always loved reading. It’s actually something my dad and I used to have in common.”

“Used to?”

And she could blame the wine for how readily she gives up the next piece of information, but she knows it’s more the kind eyes trained on her with interest that really seal the deal.

“He died. About a year ago. This was actually his cabin.”

When she meets his gaze, she expects sympathy, or even pity, but all she finds is understanding.

It makes her heartbeat spike again.

“Losing parents is never easy.”

He seems to be speaking from experience but before Arya can probe him further on it, he pulls her book out of its resting place.

“Your father had good taste though. I love this one.”

She tries to affect an air of nonchalance, pulling on all her reserves; yet, there’s no way to quell the flush rising on her cheeks.

Gendry notices.

“Have you read it?”

It feels like the universe is really out to get her when he looks at her expectantly.

“I actually wrote it,” she says after a while and tries not to completely lose it when Gendry’s eyes go wide in wonder.

“Are you serious?”

It really should be illegal how fucking cute he looks so excited as he opens the book to the back, no doubt searching for her picture.

“You’re Mercy Forel?”

Arya nods, because there’s really nothing else to do.

The edge of embarrassment though, the same one that’s making her super nervous about dropping her pseudonym, fades away the longer she watches him leaf through the book.

“You’ve read it?”

“Have I read it?”

Gendry speaks much faster than he ever has before, chuckling as he glances up at the ceiling.

“I wore out my paperback copy so badly, some of the pages fell out.”

The answer catches Arya off guard, as does his continued enthusiasm.

“I know it’s a young adult book, but I just couldn’t put it down. The way you wrote Elenei’s journey, I mean, yeah, wow.”

His voice trails off then, but the sense of bewilderment doesn’t fade.

“Are you planning a sequel?”

His expression as he asks is so different from the hunger filled looks Arya is used to, she drains the rest of her wine and sets the empty glass on the coffee table before responding.

“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to finish a first draft.”

She almost tells him more, almost spills how writing a follow up has been like pulling teeth, but she really doesn’t want to spoil tonight with her issues.

Even if she has the keen sense that it wouldn’t put Gendry off.

She’s so deep in her mental purgatory she almost doesn’t hear him address her, a quiet reverence in his tone as he looks down at her.

“You know, you’re something else, Arya Stark.”

His words alone would make her stomach lurch but paired with that weighted stare of his, it steals her breath away.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Arya reaches up and kisses him.

His lips are softer than she had imagined, as is his beard. Though Gendry doesn’t react right away, she doesn’t stop, a fire guiding her as she buries one hand in his hair and nips gently at his bottom lip.

She’s just about to pull back when suddenly those hands of his, the ones she’d spent weeks ogling as they closed around an axe, or a piece of timber, or even a damn beer bottle, close around her waist, pulling a moan from her.

It incites Gendry further, beard scratching pleasantly against her cheek as he slips his tongue into her mouth.

They don’t come up for air for what feels like eternity, lips fused together and hands unable to stay still.

Gendry’s, she feels all over her body.

On her hips, in her hair, on the small of her back.

Each touch leaves her gasping, pulling away just enough to catch a breath before seeking out his lips again.

Somehow, and Arya would not be able to recall later, they end up on the couch.

Gendry pulls her into his lap, tongue darting out to lathe at her pulse point, and the feel of him beneath her, already unmistakably hard, has her finally drawing away.

His eyes are startling clear and his touch warm as he cradles her cheek in his large palm.

“I didn’t think this would happen tonight, but I wanted it to.”

A stupid kind of excitement bubbles up inside her and she can’t help the smile that overtakes her face.

“Yeah?”

Gendry nods easily, eyes following the path his thumb takes along her lip.

“Yeah I’ve actually wanted to for a very, very long time.”

“I’ve been here less than two months.”

The words spill out of her unbidden and she tries to stifle her snicker as Gendry fixes her with an annoyed stare.

“It feels longer than that.”

He leaves it at that, taking the time to trace the shell of her ear and tuck a strand of hair behind it.

It makes her dizzy, overwhelmed, and apparently very brazen in her honesty.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you too. Probably since the first time I saw you chop wood.”

Gendry instantly quirks a wary eyebrow at her, surprise flashing across his face.

“Which would have been when?”

“The second day I got here.”

Arya winces, fighting the urge to close her eyes as Gendry tries to connect the dots.

“But we didn’t –“

“Yeah,” she cuts him off, “I kinda, maybe, sorta spied on you a little bit.”

“You watched me?”

He relaxes instantly, mouth twitching in amusement.

“No. Just a friendly look here and there. Not like I was a Peeping Tom about it.”

Except that’s exactly what she was – is – and Gendry seems to finally catch on, looking extremely self-satisfied as he smirks at her.

“Well, you don’t have to be so smug about it,” she lets out a huff, “have you seen you?”

His eyes drop to half-mast, blue darkening to an almost black as his hands flex at her hips.

“So, let me get this straight. We’re attracted to each other?”

Arya nods, palms dragging up his chest, feeling the muscles she’d previously only gotten to stare at.

“And we’ve wanted to kiss each other for way too long apparently?”

Another nod as she scratches at his bread, which is still entirely too fucking soft.

“And we’re not kissing any more, why?”

His question lingers between them for barely a second before Arya leans in close, pressing herself against his hard chest.

“Excellent point.”

She doesn’t wait for him to say anything, leaning down to catch his bottom lip between her teeth and sucking hard.

Then her world is reduced to just Gendry, his soft mouth, and his eager hands.

And words – for once – become entirely unnecessary.

xxx


	3. i write everything down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You ever think about it?” Arya asks before she can talk herself out of it. 
> 
> “Think about what?” 
> 
> “Putting down roots, having a family maybe?” 
> 
> In an effort to mask her nerves, she focuses on tracing the line of muscle on his forearm. 
> 
> “I never used to.” Gendry responds much faster than she thought he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you dear readers for both your patience and enthusiasm. Reading your comments has been such a highlight for me. As always, I own nothing including the breathtaking art. It's designed by the incredible [Emily](https://thedesignateddriver.tumblr.com), who is a talent all on her own! Enjoy <3

xxx

 _“It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door._  
_You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet,_  
_there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”_  
\- J.R.R. Tolkien (author of _The Lord of the Rings_ )

xxx

On an unusually bright autumn morning, Arya wakes up to a heavy arm slung possessively over her ribs.

For once lying perfectly still in her bed isn’t a nuisance or a necessity driven by grief, turmoil, or any of the other reasons she’s been known to linger. This time, it’s easy to snuggle further into the mess of limbs and blankets engulfing her.

Besides, it’s not like she can actually move; what with Gendry half-draped over her, pinning her down with little regard for space or her ability to breathe.

Arya doesn’t really mind.

She’s had weeks to get used to it. To the scrape of his beard, the intensity of his embrace, and the always eager tilt of his mouth, which is slightly parted now, sending ripples of air along her hairline.

While there’s a possibility that she might be using him as a distraction from her grief, ever since the night she kissed him – which resulted in several hours of them making out like teenagers – all Arya can think about is how for the first time since her father died, she’s actually happy.

And at least some part of that is due to the hunk of a man currently wrapped around her like a koala.

The thought of Gendry’s reaction to such a comparison makes Arya grins to herself. She’s just about to turn around to see his handsome face, when she feels him stir behind her.

He stretches, pressing into all the right places as his hand skims the undersides of her breasts.

Though it doesn’t seem like he does it on purpose, it still makes her stomach lurch. Arya exhales a little loudly, feeling the ghost of a smile against her temple.

“Morning.”

His voice is raspy, thick with sleep, and way too alluring to her senses. She barely has a moment to catch her breath before Gendry lets his fingers travel south, callouses catching on her skin and making her tingle all over.

They’ve never gone this far, not yet, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world for her to reach behind and trace him through his boxers.

“Arya –“

She can’t see his face but his voice, _fuck_ , it makes her toes curl, and it’s near impossible to suppress her moan when his fingers slip into her shorts.

She arches back on instinct, leg going over his. The strangled sound that comes out of him tells her it’s the right thing to do; despite his tone verging on warning as he groans into her neck.

“You’re gonna have to stop that.”

“Or what?” she can’t resist goading him or looking over her shoulder at him.

Gendry’s eyes are piercing as he stares at her, jaw sharp and tight before he leans down to capture her mouth.

His kiss is all consuming, as it always seems to be, clearing Arya’s mind of everything except the path his fingers map out along her skin, trailing down, down, down until –

_Thwack_

She pulls away to find Gendry with a swollen mouth, and a flush on his cheeks that disappears into his beard, and all Arya wants is to kiss him again but –

_Thwack_

If he’s here, then who in the bloody hells is out there?

She wouldn’t even know she’s said this out loud were it not for the mild chagrin passing over Gendry’s face, followed by a frustrated sigh as he drops his forehead against hers.

“I told Dormund he can come practice any time he likes.”

Of course he did, Arya thinks to herself, and something about the tall, gangly kid trying to wield an axe makes her shake with laughter, causing Gendry to laugh too.

His hand is still very much pressed against her, and he’s still just as hard, though pressing into her hip now that she’s on her back, and their shared mirth quickly becomes something else.

Something more tender and quieter, nowhere near as intense as before.

Her hand finds his cheek easily, stroking slowly as he peers fondly at her.

“I should go check on him.”

“You should.”

Gendry doesn’t move at first, but then he’s kissing her again, and his palm presses down on her in just that way that leaves her gasping.

He pulls away abruptly, not giving Arya a chance to retaliate as he gets out of bed and treats her to the most brilliantly unfiltered view of his muscled back.

When he’s dressed, Gendry turns around to look at her, gaze heavy, dark and so full of promise.

“I’ll be back.”

Arya doesn’t say anything, laying back down and throwing an arm over her eyes.

She’s pretty sure she doesn’t exhale until she hears the front door open and close.

xxx

The thing Arya doesn’t anticipate about being with Gendry is how easy it is. For being such a big guy, he fits so seamlessly into her space, half the time she barely notices that he’s there.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

She’s always _aware_ of him, of his eyes, and his hands, and most recently his mouth. The beard burn on various parts of her body is a heady reminder of what he can do with it.

But as far as cohabitating, it’s pretty seamless. Those first few weeks feel like some sort of dream, a suspension of the outside world as they spend more time together.

Their morning ritual doesn’t change very much. She still gets up with Gendry before the sun and settles on the porch to watch him work while she sips her coffee and reads a book or scrolls through mindless news stories on the Internet.

The only real difference now is that she won’t avert her eyes if he chucks his t-shirt off – despite it being much too cold for it. And his gaze so often don’t leave her legs that Arya would be worried for him chopping a limb off if he weren’t so skilled.

When Gendry is done, he always makes sure to leave her with a goodbye kiss before continuing on with his day – and if that sometimes makes him unreasonably late, well, Arya certainly makes it worth his while.

He still comes to the bar on most nights she works, glowering so deeply at any male customer who lingers too long, that Tormund starts affectionately referring to Gendry as her personal guard dog behind his back.

When Arya tells him this one night as they walk home, Gendry surprises her by pulling her into an alleyway and crowding her against the side of some building.

“Guard dog, huh?”

He reaches under her shirt and swiftly reminds her with both his hands and his mouth that he’s absolutely more than that.

Arya doesn’t need much convincing but she decides to keep that to herself.

The nights she doesn’t work might be her favorite though. As she anticipates, Gendry has a massive appetite, and she’s happy to cook for more than one person finally.

Without ever discussing it, they fall into a routine. She cooks dinner, he cleans, and she sits at the counter sipping her wine and watching him more around the kitchen like he’s been there for years.

It’s in these moments that her heart stammers the most, like an unexpected visitor knocking on her door, telling her that this is something different, something that warrants her attention.

But Arya’s attention span has always been mediocre at best, so she usually shoves these thoughts aside in favor of pulling Gendry towards her by the collar and kissing him until she’s out of breath.

She lets him carry her to the couch where he makes her forget everything but the taste of his mouth, the dexterity of his long, skillful fingers, and warm weight of him on top of her, or underneath her, or next to her.

Never suffocating, always just right.

Sometimes, they’ll watch an old movie on her laptop, or Gendry will pluck a random book from the shelf and read to her until she falls asleep – which is how Arya finds out that nobody is perfect indeed, given his predilection for Hemingway.

More often than not, they end up talking.

Gendry doesn’t share much about his past, or his family, instead regaling her with stories from all the places he’s been to since leaving home. And still, it’s evident that he loved his mom dearly and that she had instilled in him the same love for literature that Arya’s father had in her.

Arya’s never been in a relationship long enough to know if this is what it’s supposed to feel like but the more time she spends with Gendry, the more she wonders if maybe this is what love is.

If maybe this is what Sansa had obsessed over so much when they were kids; what Robb and Theon feel when they look at each other; what her parents had together.

It’s easy not to dwell on these things when she and Gendry are together. Easy to push the real world away and concern herself with far more important matters like figuring out the fastest way to make his brilliant blue eyes flutter shut in ecstasy.

How to pull the most delicious sounds from him as his hands wind themselves in her hair, span her waist, and his mouth spills filthy promises into her ear.

And if she falls a little harder each time, well, she’s always somehow landed on her feet, so Arya doesn’t worry about it too much.

Which is probably how she ends up accidentally picking up on her brother’s video call one afternoon without realizing that Gendry is still in the frame behind her, and in the midst of pulling his shirt back on.

Rickon’s eyebrows shoot up as soon as the video connects, expression dissolving into what can only be described as a leer.

“That’s what you’ve been doing instead of writing, huh?”

Before Arya can tell him to shut up, she hears a definite smack and her brother ducks out of view.

_“Ow, Lya, what the fuck?”_

_“Behave.”_

Gendry chuckles, torso sadly covered as he gets up and walks into the kitchen to give her some privacy.

By the time he returns with two steaming cups of tea, Arya’s successfully dodged all of Rickon’s questions about what she was doing and has said her goodbyes.

She’s perfectly happy resuming the incredibly pleasurable activities her brother interrupted, but just from the pensive expression on Gendry’s face, she instinctively knows he has something to say.

And maybe isn’t super comfortable doing so.

“That’s Rickon? The youngest?”

“Yup,” she nods, “and the most unhinged apparently. Sorry about his ogling.”

Gendry doesn’t get flustered like she expects, folding his massive arms over his chest as he grins at her.

“’s okay, I’m used to it.”

Arya feels the heat creep up her neck, but really, the time to be embarrassed has long since passed, and she decides to do something about it.

“If you come back here, I’ll do more than ogle.”

Gendry doesn’t budge from where he’s perched on the opposite arm of the sofa. His smile drops, expression turning more serious as he searches her face.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

There’s no hesitation there, not even as he nervously scratches at his beard.

“What your brother said? About you not writing, is that true?”

He looks so concerned, so serious, that familiar furrow between his eyebrows popping up and it suddenly clicks for her.

Gendry cares about her, maybe as much she cares about him. She hadn’t really given it much thought, but now it seems like the surest thing in the world. And it doesn’t seem so scary to be honest with him.

“It’s kind of true, but I’ve actually done more writing in the last two months than I have since my dad died.”

“What happened when your dad died?”

“Nothing really,” she starts, then stops, wondering for a split second if maybe she can still persuade him to change the subject.

One look at Gendry though, and Arya knows he’s not backing down. She sits up straighter, curling a leg underneath her and reaching for the cup of tea he’d set down in front of her.

“I never intended to write a sequel. When my book sold so well, my agent convinced me to turn it into a series.”

“Agent as in your sister-in-law?”

“Yes,” Arya nods, feeling the steam rise from the mug and tickle her skin, “and to Marg’s credit, it does make sense. I ended the first novel on such a vague note – ”

“But that’s what made it so cool.”

“Yeah,” she exclaims a little louder than usual, and they both dissolve into smiles.

The rush of heat she feels – so at odds with their distance – makes her look away for a second, just long enough to compose herself.

“Anyway, I agreed in the end and had actually worked through a pretty decent outline, but then…”

Even a year later, it’s still hard to talk about it. Arya wills herself to try.

“Everything just got harder after he died,” she explains, fiddling with the tea bag.

“My dad was the one I talked to when I was uncertain about writing, or second guessing myself. Suddenly, he just wasn’t there anymore and I guess it just, well, you know what it’s like.”

“I do.”

Arya thinks that might be the end of it, but then Gendry clears his throat and looks at her again.

“But you know what else I know?”

She watches as he maps her face silently, reaching a decision.

“You have a gift, and I don’t know too much about the publishing world, but if this isn’t working for you – “

He gestures to where her laptop sits untouched on her kitchen counter.

“Then why not write what you want?”

It’s such a simple question, it completely stumps her.

No one has ever asked her that, not Marg, or her siblings. Certainly not her mother, who only tolerates her chosen career path, because it has some measure of prestige attached to it.

Her father never did either, preferring to steer her towards a compromise, because that’s what he’d done his entire life too – searched for the middle ground.

And maybe it isn’t so easy, and what Gendry is suggesting isn’t exactly groundbreaking but –

The smile stretches her face before Arya can stop it. Gendry picks up on, appraising her with a bit of confusion.

“What?”

And she could tell him all of this. That no one’s challenged her like this before. That she can’t believe she’s only known him for three months and now can’t imagine her life without him in it.

The need to be closer to him wins out.

“Nothing,” she moves across the couch until she’s at eye level with him on her knees.

“Can’t a girl revel in a compliment?”

“She can,” Gendry agrees quickly, but is reluctant to unfurl his arms and bring her closer.

It’s clear that for him the conversation isn’t over. That he perhaps needs some reassurance that she won’t sweep this under the rug.

And it makes Arya’s heart stutter again, the earlier awareness that this isn’t at all casual prompting her to tilt his jaw up towards her.

“I think my father would have liked you. A lot.”

Gendry meets her gaze head on. There’s no denying the effect it has on him, face softening and making him look ten years younger somehow.

“Yeah?”

Arya nods, unwilling to say more as she drops a kiss right above his beard.

Gendry finally gives up all pretense, sliding his arms around her and slipping his fingers under her shirt, sending sparks of heat up her spine.

It’s maddening how quickly things can shift between them, but Arya gives in wholeheartedly, leaning in to nuzzle his neck.

“You know, you being concerned about my writing is a massive turn on.”

“Oh, is it?”

He tries to affect an air of calm, but the slight strain in his voice is unmistakable, and his hold on her is suddenly more possessive.

“Mhm.”

Arya takes advantage of it, sliding her hands down his front until she reaches his jeans.

“According to your brother, I’m a bad influence.”

She bites back a snort at that, his comment a lacking deterrent to her pursuit of unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly.

“It’s good then that I very rarely listen to anyone, including him.”

Her tongue darts out to trace the soft hairs beneath his jaw as her fingers finally dip beneath layers of clothing, finding him hard and heavy in her grasp.

Arya can’t resist leaning back just to appraise him then, gracing him with a smile she knows will break the last of his defenses.

“But on second thought, I wouldn’t mind being told what to do. In the right circumstance that is.”

She barely managed to get the words out before Gendry pushes her back against the couch.

He looks down at her for just a second before seeking out her mouth again, but it’s long enough for Arya to realize that she’s not the only one falling here.

xxx

There’s no instant cure to writer’s block and Arya learned that a long time ago. Yet, in the weeks following her conversation with Gendry, the anxiety that comes with staring at a blank page seems to lessen every time she opens her laptop.

It’s as if his simple advice has caused a domino effect, breaking down at least some of the walls she’d unwittingly built around her muse, making writing fun again.

It starts to feel less like a job with a looming deadline, and more like a hobby that helps restore her confidence, one paragraph at a time.

It also gives Arya the push she needs to talk to Margaery about a direction change, which the older woman is willing to discuss, especially after seeing Arya’s revised outline.

Getting Margaery’s blessing lights an even bigger fire under her, and for the first time since arriving in Last Hearth, Arya feels like she can actually pull it off. Not only finish her second book but also make it into something she is proud to put her father’s last name on.

Winter arrives harsh and swift, blanketing all the greenery in a thick dusting of snow that only the stubborn sun can melt away.

Gendry starts chopping wood a lot more frequently to ramp up the Umber’s timber supply, while Arya finds herself in front of her laptop more often, hours passing like minutes before she can pull herself away.

Dormund’s 22nd birthday falls on the first Sunday in December. Despite it snowing on and off all week, Tormund closes the bar and invites everyone over for a BBQ.

On that particular day, the sky is blessedly clear, and the sun shines brightly.

It doesn’t do much to stave off the chill in the air, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the people of Last Hearth. A faint cacophony of voices and loud music breaks through the pleasant tranquility of Gendry’s truck as they drive up to the property.

“Big house,” Arya comments as he cuts the engine.

Unlike her father’s 3-room cabin, the Giantsbane residence is at least three stories high, with a wide wrap-around porch, a chimney standing tall and proud against the slanted roof, and a forest of trees bracketing it on either side – their bushiness oddly reminding Arya of Tormund’s eyebrows.

“It’s been in the family for centuries,” Gendry explains as he gets out of the driver’s seat, “at least according to Tormund.”

Arya catches the tail end of his smirk as he rounds the car and opens the door for her.

“Well there better be food,” she says while grabbing his gloved hand, “I’m hungry.”

“Oh, there will be,” Gendry reassures her with the outmost confidence and he’s absolutely not wrong.

The smell of grilled meat hits her even before they reach the fenced backyard.

Even with the frigid temperature, the space is teeming with enough people to make Arya wonder if the entire town is here. They probably are, she thinks, before following Gendry to one of the many picnic tables covered with food and drinks, dropping off the six-pack they brought.

For someone who mostly keeps to himself, Gendry seems pretty comfortable, guiding her through the crowd until they reach the firepit where the Giantsbane clan is congregated.

Arya has never met the rest of Tormund’s sons, but they’re all easy to spot.

Aside from Gendry, they’re the tallest men here. Even the women standing next to them – who Arya surmises are their significant others – match them equally in height.

Tormund is most excited to see them, somehow crushing both of them in a one-armed hug and quickly introducing them to Toregg, Torwynd, and Dryn – all of whom honestly look like alternate versions of their father.

Even though it’s Dormund’s birthday, his older brothers have no problem teasing him mercilessly. The playful sibling interaction tugs at Arya’s heartstrings in a very real and unexpected way.

As always, it’s not long until her mind veers off course. Images of her brothers roughhousing with each other give way to those of her father, grinning at them in exasperation as he mans the grill like Tormund is now.

All the Stark kids scattered long before Ned passed away, but his death still felt like the metaphorical nail in the coffin. If Arya thinks hard enough about it, she still can’t remember the last time they were all together – at least not since the funeral.

The realization settles heavy like lead in the pit of her gut. She takes advantage of a lull in conversation with Dryn’s girlfriend to slip away into the house under the pretense of using the bathroom.

Gendry’s eyes follow her from where he stands by the snack table, but Arya doesn’t say anything to him. She knows he’ll find her if he wants to.

Sure enough, a few minutes into her perusing the family photos on the mantle in the den, she feels the familiar weight of his hand on her shoulder.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” she nods quickly, not looking away from the picture frames in front of her.

There’s one in particular that’s caught her eye – a fair-skinned blond woman cradling a newborn while three ginger-haired boys with toothy smiles crowd around her.

She’s in another photo nearby; a much younger version of Tormund embracing her from behind, large hands draped over her swollen belly as they both smile at the camera.

There are other photographs lining the mantle, depicting the Giantsbane boys and their little sister in varying stages of adulthood, but none feature the gentle looking woman in first photo Arya noticed.

“I wonder what happened to her.”

She doesn’t expect Gendry to have an answer. It warms her all the same when he pulls her into the circle of his arms, resting his chin on top of her head.

“Not sure, but they’re still tight knit and seem happy.”

It’s evident he’s trying to cheer her up, and Arya gives into it, both the physical comfort and his slight optimism.

“You ever think about it?” She asks before she can talk herself out of it.

“Think about what?”

“Putting down roots, having a family maybe?”

In an effort to mask her nerves, she focuses on tracing the line of muscle on his forearm.

“I never used to.” Gendry responds much faster than Arya thought he would.

She doesn’t bother hiding her smile as she finally turns around, settling her palms on his chest and locking eyes with him.

There’s an intensity lurking in his blue gaze, but a different, quieter sort than she’s used. It does nothing to quell the hammering in her chest.

“How about now?”

Gendry’s entire face softens, suggesting that he knows exactly what she’s asking, but before he can acknowledge it, Toregg appears in the doorway with a loud thud.

“There you lot are!” He exclaims, red-faced and eager.

Over the course of the afternoon, Arya had learned that the eldest is the most boisterous of the bunch and has also had the most to drink.

“We’re about to sing happy birthday, and then we’ve got a surprise.”

He wiggles his orange eyebrows before disappearing down the hall, and Arya laughs before turning back to look at Gendry.

The moment is broken, but there’s still an itch inside her, a sign of something left unfinished. Without really thinking about it, she curls her fingers into his sweater and pulls him down for a kiss.

He tastes like the cider he’d been drinking, but underneath that, there’s the unmistakable hint of something that makes her toes curl in her boots.

It should scare her, she knows that, but it doesn’t.

If anything, by the time they pull apart, she feels more at ease than she’s been since thoughts of her father infiltrated her mind again.

It occurs to her later, as she’s washing whipped cream out of her hair while Gendry cleans off his beard – both casualties of the _surprise_ cake fight that Toregg started as soon as Dormund blew out his birthday candles – that she’s started to think about her future too.

When Gendry locks the bathroom door and lifts her onto the counter, it becomes abundantly clear yet again that he’s very much a part of that.

xxx

In retrospect, Arya probably wouldn’t have even noticed the woman had it not been such a slow afternoon.

There was also just something eerily familiar about her black hair and the way she kept shooting looks in Arya’s direction as she sat hunched over a corner high top, barely touching the mostly full pint of beer in front of her.

Her glances had become so frequent, it hadn’t been a total surprise when Arya emerged from the back to find the woman perched in her section of the bar.

“Can I get you anything?”

When Arya finally looks up from where she’d been wiping down the counter, she has to bite back a gasp.

The blue eyes staring back at her – she’s seen them many times before. At least a variation of them framed by the same dark lashes and eyebrows. It instantly puts her on edge, discomfort tingling through her even at the woman’s polite smile.

“I’m actually looking for someone, Gendry Waters. Have you seen him around?”

Something about the way she poses the question makes it seem like she already knows the answer, prompting Arya to interrupt when she tries to explain.

“He’s my brother and –“

“You’re his sister? Gendry has never mentioned having a sister before.”

“I imagine he wouldn’t,” the woman says carefully, extending her hand across the bar top.

“I’m Mya, technically Gendry’s half-sister. I’ve been trying to track him down.”

“Why?”

Arya doesn’t miss how those familiar blue eyes widen ever so slightly as Mya drops her outstretched hand back into her lap.

“It really would be best if I spoke to him first. It’s a family matter, really.”

It might be the mention of family or just her need to satisfy her curiosity that has Arya relenting a bit. Her suspicion doesn’t fade though, inciting her to be vague.

“He might show up here later, after the happy hour rush. You can try your luck then.”

Mya seems satisfied with that, flashing a grateful smile as she gets off the stool.

“Thanks, I’ll try that.” She says before sliding a few bills to Arya and walking away.

With the slow afternoon giving way to the after-work rush, Arya nearly forgets about the strange encounter. Still, hours later, when she spots Gendry entering the bar, the sense of foreboding returns.

He walks slowly, giving her just enough time to school her expression into something that doesn’t reveal her sudden nerves.

“Hey.”

Gendry doesn’t bother with propriety, wedging himself in between two groups and leaning over to kiss her cheek.

“Hey yourself.”

Arya gives herself the moment to indulge, turning her head to kiss the corner of his mouth and breathe in that unique scent of his – the one that usually seems to steady her.

This time, it only makes her heave a sigh against his lips before they separate.

Gendry’s forehead creases in confusion as soon as he appraises her, large palm settling over her shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

Before Arya can reassure him that nothing’s actually wrong and perhaps give him a little warning, Mya walks into the bar.

Gendry immediately looks over his shoulder, following Arya’s line of sight, and her stomach drops when he goes absolutely still.

Arya can’t see his expression as he turns to face his sister, but there’s no avoiding how sharply Gendry breaks contact with her.

“Gendry – “

“How did you find me?” He cuts his sister off, the pure steel in his voice chilling Arya to the bone.

Mya opens her mouth to speak again, but Gendry doesn’t give her a chance, volleying his accusatory gaze to Arya.

“Did you have something to do with this?”

The mix of hurt and anger in his question snaps her out of her stupor, and she tries to reach for him.

“No, Mya just came in earlier, looking for you –“

Gendry shrugs her off, and it feels like he’s physically slapped her, his eyes flashing with something distant and unfamiliar to her.

“And you what? Took it upon yourself to tell her where to find me?”

“No, Gendry, that’s not what happened here.”

Mya’s attempt to placate him seem to have the opposite effect. Holding up a hand, he takes a step back from both of them.

“I don’t know what you thought you’d accomplish by coming here, but I told the lawyers to fuck off, and I’m telling you the same thing.”

His eyes skate from his sister to Arya again. It looks like he might say something to her, but all he does is glare with clenched fists and an even tighter jaw before turning around and shoving his way through the crowd.

As soon as Gendry walks away, Arya springs into action. She doesn’t bother telling Dormund to cover for her, sliding under the bar flap and following him out of the bar.

The sun has long since dipped below the horizon but she still shields her eyes when she steps out, searching for Gendry’s retreating form.

There are a few people milling about but Arya doesn’t even care, catching up to him and nearly running into his back when he suddenly stops and spins around.

“Just wait. Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” Gendry snaps back, not bothering to hide the vitriol in his voice.

Arya isn’t sure when this became about her and maybe that’s what has her so tongue-tied.

For once, Gendry doesn’t seem to have the same problem.

“Explain how it is exactly that you and my sister decided to ambush me?”

“What?”

Her reaction is genuine, surprise coloring her words, but it only seems to tick him off more.

“Don’t act dumb, Arya. Tell me,” he advances towards her and even though Arya’s never been afraid of him, and certainly isn’t now, an unpleasant shiver still runs down her back.

“Were you so desperate to know more about me that you had to get my sister involved? That you fell for her bullshit?”

“Gendry, that’s not –“

But he doesn’t give her a chance to speak, and that might be the worst part of all – that it feels like he’s already made up his mind about this, about _her_.

“Don’t, Arya. I don’t want to hear it. You had no right.”

She knows she should say something but the look of utter betrayal on his face leaves her paralyzed.

He moves towards his truck before she can do anything, yanking the driver’s door open and getting inside without an ounce of hesitation.

He regards her one more time as he revs up the engine but Arya doesn’t bother pleading with him more; aware on some intrinsic level that he can’t be reasoned with at the moment.

Instead, she watches numbly as he peels out of the parking spot, trying to fight the sinking feeling that this is somehow the end.

She stands in the same spot for far too long after. Until the first stars break through the nighttime sky and Dormund comes out looking for her.

Arya lets him lead her back inside, not even acknowledging Mya, who had stepped out at some point, or the guilt on her face.

The next morning when Arya wakes up to find Gendry’s truck parked where it usually is in front of his cabin, it doesn’t bring her any comfort.

And when an entire day goes by without him turning up, there’s little surprise.

Just a coil of regret and loss winding around her heart and confirming what she’d known the second he drove away from her.

Gendry is gone and there’s nothing she can do about it.

xxx


	4. except what's on my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter in Last Hearth is the perfect writing backdrop. Sometimes hours will go by without Arya hearing a single noise beyond the occasional burst of nature, like a bird chirping, or a particularly sharp gust of wind. 
> 
> The sound of a car approaching cuts through the silence one late afternoon, and there’s a moment, a split second really, where her heart seems to simultaneously drop into her stomach and lodge in her throat at the prospect of Gendry coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every single one of you who has read this. It's been a really long time since I finished a multi-chapter and to have such wonderful feedback really kept me going. 
> 
> And none of this would be nearly as fun without [Emily](https://thedesignateddriver.tumblr.com), who designed the art for each chapter. Thank you!! 
> 
> The only thing I’ll say about this chapter is every story deserves a happy ending, amirite? ;)
> 
> Hope you all enjoy xoxo.

xxx

 _“When love exists, nothing else matters_  
_not life’s predicaments, not the fury of the years_  
_not a physical winding down or scarcity of opportunity.”_  
\- Isabel Allende, Chilean author

xxx

_“Baratheon? As in Robert Baratheon? Dad’s childhood friend?”_

_“Yes, my love.”_

Sansa turns to Arya, eyes flashing briefly in shock before glancing off-screen at her wife.

_“But that can’t be. I mean what are the chances. Are you sure?”_

Margaery says something in response but Arya drowns it out.

 _What are the chances_ is exactly what she’s been asking herself for days. Along with many other questions that sprung from watching Gendry drive away from her.

Some of those, she’d at least gotten answers to.

Once the reality had sunk in, the first thing Arya did was find Mya.

It wasn’t hard to track her down. Last Hearth didn’t even have a proper hotel, just a Bed & Breakfast run by some cousins of the Umbers. With her tall stature, distinct black hair and blue eyes, Mya was easy to spot in the lobby.

In retrospect, Arya couldn’t believe she didn’t notice the resemblance right away.

There were differences sure, but for the most part Gendry and his older sister looked very much alike. The similarities seemed to end there. Whether from guilt or something else, Mya was more than willing to answering all of Arya’s questions.

It was true.

Gendry’s biological father, Robert Baratheon, grew up with Ned Stark at the Eyrie. They’d also briefly attended uni together before Robert moved down to the capital and married into the Lannister family.

After that, he became a name that was rarely spoken in the Stark household. Any mention of Robert was often accompanied by a frown and disappointed exhale curtesy of her mother.

It was clear Catelyn didn’t think very much of Ned’s oldest friend. Though Arya rarely sees eye to eye with her mother, she now understands why she found Robert so deplorable.

Repeated adultery and child abandonment would color anyone’s perception of a person.

Robert was guilty of both, fathering five children out of wedlock including Mya and Gendry.

In the douchiest move of all, and Arya suspects mostly to avoid his wife’s notorious wrath, Robert kept away from all of them. Even during times where they might have needed him the most.

According to Mya, Gendry had it the worst. His mother passed away when he was just a teenager and with no family to speak of, he became the government’s problem until he aged out of the system.

Mya had gleaned this bit of information from Robert’s lawyers, who had contacted her after Robert’s passing some years back.

Even in death, Robert liked things done on his terms. He had agreed to leave half his fortune to the five children he’d barely known during his life. The only catch was that the money had been set up in a trust, requiring all five of their signatures.

Mya could have done without the money, but it would help both Bella and their youngest sibling Barra, who was being raised by a single mother.

They’d managed to get Edric onboard, finally locating him somewhere on a backpacking trip in Essos but they hadn’t been so lucky with Gendry.

By the time Robert died, Gendry had already been off the grid for a while, making it incredibly difficult to track him down. Something Arya could attest to given how many times she’d made fun of him for carrying an outdated flip phone.

“They still make those?” she had teased him on more than one occasion but the joke was apparently on her.

After many ignored calls and unanswered emails, Bella and Edric had both stopped trying to get in touch with Gendry.

Mya refused to give up though, convinced that if he would just hear her out, he’d gladly sign off on the trust. Even if he wanted nothing to do with “Robert’s dirty pay off money,” as he’d so eloquently put in the few angry letters the lawyers received from him.

Arya couldn’t help but smile at that.

She could easily picture Gendry – the same guy who went on an impassionate rant about how Severus Snape was in fact not a redeemable character – finding the _right_ words to properly shun his father’s feeble posthumous attempt at making amends.

It was a dull kind of appreciation though, overshadowed entirely by his impulsive behavior.

Arya simply couldn’t reconcile the man Mya was describing with the one who kept a watchful eye on her at the bar; who always made sure that her wine glass was topped off and seemed so invested in her rediscovering the joy in writing again.

It just didn’t make sense, and yet it kind of did.

The months they spent getting to know each other were a reprieve from the pressures of real life; an oasis in the desert of her grief and the expectations of everyone around her.

It hadn’t ever occurred to her that maybe Gendry’s reticence to share his past had been borne out of him running from something too.

The lack of answers though, directly from him, felt very much like whiplash. And sure, Arya could try to track him down but something like pride or maybe plain anguish held her back.

So, she turned to the only person she knew with more connections in King’s Landing than the Lannisters.

Margaery didn’t have much to tell her beyond what Arya already knew, which left the conversation wide open for Sansa to start asking a million questions, all dripping in thinly disguised pity that the tiny phone screen could not hide.

It’s a look Arya knows intimately; one that her sister has had a hard time concealing ever since their father passed away.

But losing Gendry is different.

It’s doesn’t feel as final – much like her first novel, without a definitive ending.

And well that, at least, Arya can control.

The thought leaves her even more disinterested in watching Sansa and her wife bicker over whether Gendry really is Robert Baratheon’s bastard.

Instead, Arya turns to the one thing that’s brought her any sort of comfort in these last few days.

She hangs up without saying goodbye, opens her laptop, and starts to write.

xxx

In the weeks after Gendry leaves, Arya learns how she truly feels about the saying, “home is not a place but a person.”

It is and it isn’t.

For one, she never seems to be truly alone.

Dormund rarely leaves her side during their shifts, and at least twice a week, he shows up at her door, feigning one excuse after another.

Initially, Arya is annoyed.

She’s never going to be completely comfortable accepting help or admitting weakness, but there’s still something undeniably nice about being fretted over.

Even if it comes from a kid nearly ten years her junior, who still hasn’t fully outgrown his teenage awkwardness.

Dormund’s heart is in the right place though; and so Arya lets him come over and snoop around the living room.

Let’s him ask a bunch of questions she only half answers; eventually dodging them altogether by tossing a book in his direction and telling him to read.

They only ever talk about Gendry once.

It’s a particularly stormy night, the atmosphere weighing as heavily on Arya as the snow blanketing nearly every surface outside.

“I’m fine, you know,” she tells him as she peels her eyes away from the frost curling around the windowpane.

“You don’t have to worry or feel sorry for me. This kind of thing happens all the time. People leave. It’s alright.”

Dormund surprises her, putting down the hardcopy of _The Last of the Mohicans_ to regard her for a moment.

“You’re not the one I feel sorry for.”

He doesn’t wait for her to ask the inevitable question.

“Gendry’s probably beating himself up for leavin’ like that. It’s like what my ma’ used to say, women are the resilient ones. It’s us, lads, who have trouble lettin’ go.”

Arya’s not quite sure what to do with that.

There’ve been countless nights where she’s laid awake – bitter over being unused to sleeping alone; wondering where Gendry is and what he’s doing. If he feels bad for walking out on her like that.

But those thoughts inevitably lead to anger and frustration and the question of whether she could have done more to stop him. In an effort to fend them off now, her mind fixates on something else entirely.

She’s not the only who has lost a parent.

When she asks him about his mother, Dormund doesn’t shy away from sharing, letting Arya get lost in the memories with him. It’s a pleasant reminder that one day, she’ll think just as fondly on her father.

Dormund never asks about him, proving to Arya that he might be more mature than she had given him credit for.

When the conversation tapers off, she suggests they watch a movie as they wait out the storm.

Dormund doesn’t object to that – or to the extra leftovers she sends him home with later.

While Arya finds herself looking forward to hanging out with him, on the evenings she spends alone, she still finds an odd sense of tranquility in her surroundings.

Over time, she even stops feeling like the specter of her father is lurking in every corner; her mind pulling on threads of happier memories, and subsequently fueling her muse.

Arya doesn’t bother dwelling on why that is.

For once, it’s just easier to lose herself in her writing.

And she does – crafting chapter after chapter that feels real, authentic to her voice and the characters she’s come to love so much.

Winter in Last Hearth with its bright, still days and turbulent, windy nights serves as the perfect writing backdrop. Sometimes hours will go by without Arya hearing a single noise beyond the occasional burst of nature, like a bird chirping, or a particularly sharp gust of wind.

It’s why it’s easy to pick up on the sound of a car approaching one late afternoon as she’s getting ready for her shift.

There’s a moment, a split second really, where her heart seems to simultaneously drop into her stomach and lodge in her throat at the prospect of Gendry coming back.

The whimsy passes quickly when she peeks through the curtain in the living room to find a familiar but unexpected car coming to a stop next to her borrowed Jeep.

Arya instantly cracks a smile as she watches her youngest brother get out of the driver’s seat to stretch his long limbs, his gaze zeroing in on the woman sliding out of the passenger side.

“I thought you said my Prius couldn’t hack it out here.”

She calls out as soon as she makes it out to the porch and can’t help but match Rickon’s enthusiasm as he laughs in response.

“Well since you decided not to come home for the holidays, I figured I’d risk it.”

“What he really means to say is he missed his Jeep,” Lyanna cuts in easily as she rounds the car to stand by her boyfriend.

“Technically, Lya’s not wrong.”

Rickon throws his arm around her shoulders, gazing longingly at his Jeep before addressing Arya again.

“But we were actually on our way to Bear Island and decided to take a detour. Had to make sure you haven’t gone full Jack from _The Shining_ up here.”

Lyanna immediately elbows him, resulting in Rickon dramatically rubbing his side but Arya can’t even find it in herself to be annoyed. Not when he’s driven nearly four hours out of his way to see her.

She ushers them inside instead; gaze, for once, not straying to the empty cabin across the road.

xxx

When their father died, all the Stark kids handled it differently.

Robb put all his energy into keeping the family business alive.

Jon skulked away to Castle Black, preferring to lick his wounds in private.

Bran found solace in his studies, while Sansa threw herself into charity work.

And Rickon, well, the youngest Stark found love. Or more accurately stopped running from it.

The Mormonts had been family friends for years; Lyanna and her sisters nearly permanent fixtures during holidays, parties and summer vacations.

That didn’t mean a relationship between Rickon and her was predestined in some way, but he’d always been just a little different around the raven-haired girl.

A touch softer and cautious in a way that made it difficult for him to hide his affections – even if he was borderline savage with everyone else.

Arya had always assumed it was Lyanna’s striking looks and no bullshit attitude that had finally worn Rickon down.

In the days they spend in Last Hearth, it becomes clear that the youngest Mormont hasn’t so much tamed Rickon as she’s kept him on this toes enough to keep him out of any real trouble.

And her brother is better off for it; less angry, more rational, and self-aware in a way Arya’s never seen him before.

And though Arya hadn’t been privy to the details of how he and Lya finally got together, watching the ease with which they orbit around each other warms her heart.

It also makes her just a tad melancholy, reminding her of the familiarity she’d begun to build with Gendry.

It’s impossible, as she watches Rickon flit around Lyanna as she cooks, not to think about the many mornings she’d spent watching Gendry chop wood.

When Lyanna teases Rickon for his strange taste in books – he always seems to gravitate towards science fiction – it’s hard for Arya not to reflect on how much fun she had ribbing Gendry for being a Steinback fan.

He hadn’t taken too kindly to her calling him predictable, making a point of being very _unpredictable_ by lifting her onto the counter and reminding her that he was still very capable of finding new ways to leave her breathless.

These memories pull her heart and mind in opposite directions.

It’s tough to believe that she had actually begun falling in love and that it could have possibly been reciprocated.

After all, people in love didn’t do what Gendry did, did they?

Arya simply doesn’t know.

And maybe that’s what drives her to ask her brother the question that’s been on her mind pretty much the entire time he and Lyanna have been here.

Or it might be the ridiculous amount of tequila they’ve just ingested.

On their last night in Last Hearth, Arya finds herself slumped over one of the high-tops at Giant’s Gates, a tray of empty shot glasses littering the table as Rickon fiddles with the salt-shaker.

Every so often, he’ll look over his shoulder to where Lyanna is standing at the bar, talking to Dormund. On one such occasion, the words spill out of Arya before she can stop them.

“How’d you know?”

“Know what?”

Expression pinched in confusion, her brother looks at her with bleary eyes.

“That you love Lyanna,” she clarifies before she loses her nerve.

Unsurprisingly, her brother deflects with a lopsided grin.

“I don’t know that I can explain it well. After all, I’m not the writer in the family.”

Arya barely holds off kicking him under the table but her effort to suppress an eye roll is less successful, and it sobers Rickon up.

He sits up straighter, abandoning the saltshaker and stealing one more look at Lyanna, before turning to Arya with an expression that’s become familiar to her over the last few days.

“It’s almost like,” he starts, licking salt off his thumb as he tries to find the words.

“She’s the person I always find in a crowd, no matter what. She’s the one I want to be standing next to.”

It’s not exactly what Arya was expecting, but it fits in some way. When the sudden flush overtakes her brother’s freckled cheeks, she can’t help but smile.

For all the growth Rickon has done, he’s still slightly uncomfortable about what he’s just revealed.

It’s no surprise then when he leans back, mouth curving in self-satisfaction as his Tully eyes sparkle with delight.

“Plus, she’s ridiculously hot, which helps a lot. But you’d know something about that, wouldn’t you?”

It takes Arya a moment to get what he’s implying. Luckily, Lyanna returns by then, a tray of waters and a bowl of peanuts in her possession.

“Drink up,” she hands a glass to Rickon before training her dark eyes at Arya, “you too.”

Arya doesn’t argue, grabbing one of the glasses and taking a large gulp.

As she watches her brother sloppily kiss his girlfriend’s cheek in thanks, her thoughts drift away.

His words, though, stay with her long after they leave.

Despite Rickon’s pleas, Arya doesn’t promise an imminent return to Winterfell, sending them off to Bear Island in his Jeep now that she has no plans of driving through the winter.

It’s only when the trees have shaken off most of the frigid chill, sprouting green and new once again, that she finally contemplates going home.

The thought leaves her more vexed than she anticipated, catching her nearly as off guard as Dormund’s disappointed smile and Tormund’s furrowed eyebrows when she tells them one night after closing.

“Well, a going away party is in order then,” is all the latter says before clapping her on the shoulder and disappearing into the back.

Dormund’s narrowed gaze lingers on hers for a while longer.

“Wrapped up what you needed to do here then?” he asks in a far too shrewd tone, and Arya doesn’t bother hiding her smile as she tosses a rag at him.

“Something like that.”

They’ve never talked about it, about her novel or why she was in Last Hearth, but the sense of accomplishment at finally finishing a first draft of her sequel is near impossible to hide.

Arya finds she doesn’t even want to.

There are many edits ahead of her but the groundwork has been lain, spilling onto the pages and freeing up space in her heart and mind.

With the draft finished, life starts calling more loudly for her; hours spent on the phone with Margaery to review edits; conference calls with the PR team to figure out the best schedule for her pre-book press tour; and so many phone interviews, Arya loses track of what she talks about in each one.

Still, it’s not as exhausting as she expected it to be, proving that her father had been right in thinking she would enjoy the more public side of her career.

In fact, she finds herself having fun with each and every discussion she has with a reporter about her writing.

It’s why it doesn’t take the PR team a whole lot to convince her to do a surprise book reading in the Capital in a couple months, and more imminently, a photoshoot for _North Star Gazette._

The latter gives Arya a firmer deadline of when she needs to be back in Winterfell.

Spring is already in full swing by the time she packs up her Prius and does one final walk through of the cabin.

She lingers quite a while in the doorway to her father’s bedroom – the one she had only stepped into out of necessity when Rickon and Lyanna stayed there.

The hollowness she felt before doesn’t come.

Arya’s not sure when it happened but sometime between losing Gendry and finishing her novel, thoughts of her father have become more of a comfort than a cause for pain.

She leaves the door ajar, holding onto that feeling as tightly as she does the steering wheel when she peels out of the driveway, determined to leave her grief behind.

xxx

Winterfell doesn’t feel all that different but work keeps Arya busy.

She still finds the time to check out Robb and Theon’s new house, get way too drunk with Rickon and Lyanna, and even hang out with her mother.

The latter offers to accompany Arya to the _North Star Gazette_ photoshoot. Her enthusiasm over wardrobe and styling choices leaves Arya hopeful that one day they could have a closer bond.

Her mother seems to be on the same page, embracing Arya rather tightly when she drops her off at the airport for her flight to King’s Landing.

Arya only plans to be in the capital for a week, doing a series of meetings at the publishing house, a couple more promotional interviews and the surprise book reading at one of the Stark hotels in the Red Keep.

She’s so busy for most of it, she only gets to see Sansa once. Her sister, of course, maximizes on the time, taking Arya shopping for an outfit for her reading.

She also helps Arya get ready the morning of, covering the hotel room in piles of makeup, clothing, and jewelry. Arya tolerates it mostly because she finds herself genuinely enjoying spending time with her sister again, especially when the latter is in her element.

The day goes by in a blur.

Arya soaks up every minute of it, thriving off the energy of the crowd and especially touched by the number of young girls who show up to the reading.

She spends far too many hours after talking to anyone who lingers behind, and it’s early evening by the time Arya can sit back in her chair and take a breather.

She’s meant to have dinner with Sansa and Margaery, but the thought of anything other than her hotel room bed and room service sounds way too daunting. She plans to tell Margaery so when the older woman taps her on the shoulder.

“You must be exhausted but there’s one more fan waiting for you outside.”

Arya bites back a groan, gathering the last bit of her energy and getting up on her feet – glad she didn’t let Sansa convince her into a pair of heels.

“Lead the way.”

Margaery smiles a little too widely, but Arya doesn’t bother asking why, too concerned with stretching her sore limbs as she follows her sister-in-law out of the ballroom.

It’s not until they’re in the middle of the lobby, so many people milling about but only one who actually matters, that everything suddenly falls into place.

Margaery is saying something but Arya suddenly can’t hear her at all. In fact, she can’t hear much of anything except her own pulse hammering in her throat and the blood rushing to her ears.

Some variation of this exact moment has played on an endless loop in her mind for months.

She figured she would feel anger, frustration, and be overwhelmed by a need for answers, but all Arya can really think about is Rickon’s words from the bar that night.

And how absolutely true they are given how quickly her eyes zero in on the familiar head of black hair peeking out among the throng of people.

It’s a good thing she sees him first. It gives her a moment to compose herself. To process that it’s really Gendry standing here in the crowded hotel lobby, miles upon miles away from where she’d seen him last.

At first she thinks it’s his startling sameness that spikes her relief, but then he finally spots her, eyes locking in on hers, and Arya knows that’s not it at all.

It’s something else entirely.

Something that never faded in the time she spent without him; never faded even when things didn’t make sense.

Something that her brother tried to articulate that she had only semi-understood but now feels in every fiber of her being.

Her feet carry her forward, pushing through crowd until she’s right in front of him.

Margaery doesn’t follow her, and Arya thinks she wouldn’t even notice if she did.

Not when all she can hear, see, and _feel_ is Gendry.

She’s close enough to see all the little changes about him; beard neater than she’s ever seen it, skin less tan, more laugh lines around his brilliant blue eyes.

But his bulk and height are still just as overwhelming as ever, and the expression of guilt on his handsome face unties her tongue.

“Hi.”

Gendry’s eyes flash instantly, as if he hadn’t been expecting her to speak.

“Hey, I –“

He lifts his hand out of his pocket to rub at his jaw and the surge of affection nearly undoes her.

How many times had she seen him struggle like this – that nervousness so at odds with his calm demeanor?

How many times did he search her face like he is now, not knowing what to say?

And Arya knows there are layers to him that she hasn’t discovered yet but she wants to.

Gods, even after all the pain, all the uncertainty, she still wants it, still wants _him._

It’s a snap decision but she doesn’t regret reaching for his hand.

“What are you –“

“C’mon,” she cuts him off, not looking back as she leads them to the elevator.

Gendry falls into step without a word, but Arya can feel his eyes on her.

She’s still holding onto him as they step into the elevator, and as they get off on the floor where her room is, and even as she fishes her keycard out of her back pocket and lets them in.

When the door shuts behind them and Arya finally looks at him, well and truly, without the rest of the world infringing, the urge to touch him doesn’t fade.

“Arya, I am so sor-“

But Gendry seems forever fated not to finish his sentences around her, apology cut abruptly by the motion of her practically body slamming him into a hug.

Strong arms – arms Arya has missed more than she’s willing to admit – band securely around her waist, nearly lifting her off the floor.

She breathes in the scent of him and lets her confession flow into the roughened side of his beard.

“I missed you so much.”

As soon as she speaks, Gendry extricates her from his grasp, eyes swimming in disbelief.

“I don’t deserve for you to miss me. I messed up so badly.”

Even as he says it though, he doesn’t let her go far, one arm still around her as he reaches up to tuck a few stands of hair behind her ear.

“Then what are you doing here?” she asks softly, no longer able to hide from the reality of the situation.

Gendry understands immediately, finally stepping away to compose himself.

“The way I left, I, _fuck._ It’s just my fath- Robert, his fucking lawyers, they’d been hounding me for so long, and when Mya showed up, I saw red. I’m –“

Arya watches him pace, running his fingers through his hair at least a dozen times. She wants to go to him, to soothe him, but the reminder of the time they’ve spent apart keeps her in place.

She doesn’t know exactly what Gendry sees when he looks at her, but it’s enough for him to stop and drop his hands at his sides.

“How much do you know?”

“Enough,” she tells him without skipping a beat, and as much as she wants that to be it, they both know it’s not, “but it would be great if I could hear it from you.”

A strange sort of calm washes over Gendry as he levels a gaze at her again.

“I want to tell you everything. I mean I _will_ tell you everything, but I have to say something else first.”

“Tell me,” she whispers nearly inaudibly but its loud enough for him.

“I wasn’t expecting you at all,” he says with eyes trained on hers, “I’d been fine living my life the way it was. I’d accepted certain things about it.”

“What things?” Arya blurts out, not quelling her need to know.

Gendry doesn’t seem put off by her eagerness. Instead affection – clear as day – flashes on his handsome face, ricocheting through her, right along with his words.

“That I didn’t need anyone. That I was perfectly happy being alone. Then I met you, and Arya –“

He stops suddenly, and she almost doesn’t need him to keep going because his eyes, _oh_ , his eyes reveal everything.

“Look, before you, I was a miserable shit. And now, after you – _Gods_. I can’t even remember what it was like before I met you. I must sound crazy – “

“No, you don’t.”

Arya actually understands.

Even though she’s lived almost 30 years without him, there’s a clear delineation in her life before and after Gendry.

“You don’t sound crazy.” She tells him with a quiet soft of firmness that clearly startles him.

His mouth opens a few times but nothing comes out. If it were any other circumstance, Arya might even tease him for it.

But this isn’t the time for it. This is the time for hard truths. From both of them.

“I can’t deny that I was hurt and confused when you left, but I was pissed at myself too.”

“For what?” Gendry exclaims, eyes growing wide as he steps closer to her, “you did absolutely nothing wrong. I’m the one who left.”

“I know that,” Arya puts her hand up, signaling for him to hear her out.

“But maybe you wouldn’t have if I had been honest with you. If I had told you how I felt and – “

She pauses then to take a breath, because after months of debating, months of warring with herself, she knows now with certainty that she should have done this earlier.

Much earlier.

“I love you, okay?”

And it’s like she can breathe again; like the noose around her heart – and her throat – has finally loosened enough for her to lean into this feeling.

“I don’t know how it happened, and I wasn’t expecting it either, but here I am. I thought maybe with you gone, it would go away, but it didn’t and I-“

But it’s Gendry’s turn to interrupt her, striding towards her until she’s pressed into the wall and his large hands frame her cheeks, eyes incredulous and searching.

“You love me?”

And because she doesn’t know what else to say, Arya nods wordlessly.

The sharp exhale across her face makes her shiver; a startling reminder of the last time they were this close.

Her eyes instinctively drop to his mouth but the softening of his expression keeps Arya from reaching up to kiss him.

“What?” She can’t help but ask, leaning into the comfort washing over her as he strokes her cheek.

“Nothing. It’s just,” Gendry starts, eyes still very much roving over her; now framed in some sort of wonder.

“Only you, Arya Stark, can hijack a love confession and get away with it.”

What he’s implying doesn’t register right away, not like the proximity of his body.

And she knows it’s not perfect and there are still things they have to talk about, but it’s all Arya can do not to sigh out in relief as she presses a palm to his chest, right above where his heart is beating almost as frantically as hers.

“Well, you took too long.”

Gendry’s eyes flash with recognition and then remorse as he covers her hand with his.

“I did,” he admits quickly, bringing her knuckles up to his lips and nearly unraveling her with the swipe of his mouth.

Her eyes flutter shut unwillingly, mind suddenly lost and body weightless as she takes a steadying breath. And it’s only when Gendry speaks again that she opens them.

“Am I too late?”

Arya knows what he’s asking, and she knows what her answer is.

Without much thought, her fingers curl into the collar of his shirt and then her mouth is finally on his.

The sheer relief from how familiar he tastes nearly makes her knees give out, but it’s not just the feel of his kiss that has her grabbing onto him and not letting go.

The expression on his face, it’s the same as it was after the first time she kissed him. When he was so enamored with her, she felt it everywhere.

And she feels it now too.

“What do you think?” She asks but it’s almost unnecessary, especially with how quickly Gendry crowds her again, kissing her with seemingly his entire body.

It’s hot, so much hotter than before, a perfect outlet for everything Arya’s ever felt for him.

And all she wants is to let the deluge come, let it wash over her as quickly as possible.

Gendry doesn’t protest as she shoves him towards the bed, tongue too busy reacquainting itself with the caverns of her mouth.

Any hesitation that they’re moving too quickly fades away as soon as he sits down on the edge of the mattress and pulls her into his lap, lips finding her neck easily.

The quick way he latches on to _that_ spot unleashes a flurry of anticipation and need so immersive, Arya wonders whether she’ll ever come up for air again.

She doesn’t really want to.

With that in mind, she tugs at Gendry’s t-shirt, impressed by the steadiness of her hands as his mouth continues to wreak havoc on her skin.

The reward is all the more gratifying when she leans back to find his thick, muscled chest bare and heaving, eyes half-wild and shining only for her.

And she must look like a hot mess right now; hair disheveled, top askew with the beginnings of beard burn along her neck, but none of that seems to matter as Gendry settles his hand over the side of her face, thumb swiping her bottom lip.

“I missed you too, so, so much.”

“Show me,” she requests, and he does, guiding her mouth back to his and tugging the straps of her dress down.

From then, it’s just a mess of kisses and moans – his and hers, Arya can’t really tell – and the thrum of her pulse beating in her temples and in her throat, and at the dip of her waist, where Gendry’s still very much calloused fingers leave nearly indelible imprints.

And they don’t talk at all, words impossible when there’s so much to relearn and discover about each other.

It’s only when there’s nothing but skin and heat and need, so much need, pulsating between them that Gendry breaks the silence.

“Got a condom?”

He drops the question to her shoulder, a bashful sort of smile belying the absolute insistence of his thumbs on her breasts.

And it’s a miracle that Arya has the semblance of mind to climb off him and walk unsteadily to the suitcase in the corner of the room, trying – and failing – to hold back a laugh.

Of course, she has condoms.

Rickon had made a point of tossing a full box into her suitcase as a not so subtle reminder that his initial advice was still very much relevant, if not more now.

When she tells Gendry this, the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not when they can’t seem to settle on any one part of her body.

Her cheeks flush from it all, compounded by the image Gendry paints – sitting on the edge of the bed, still as ruggedly handsome as ever, and wearing nothing but the impatience on his face.

“Well, your brother’s unfailing optimism worked in my favor,” he says with a wicked smirk, “so get over here.”

Arya doesn’t keep him waiting, eagerly bridging the distance between them and finding her home in his arms again.

And when Gendry slides into her for the first time, she wraps her arms around those broad shoulders of his and holds on tight, unable to find a single reason to let go.

xxx

“How did you find me?” she asks sometime later, unwilling to move even an inch from where she’s sprawled across Gendry’s chest.

“I looked Margaery up.”

His fingers lace through her hair, tugging her to look up at him.

“She didn’t seem surprised to hear from me.”

“She knows who you are,” Arya explains; a bit of uncertainty seeping in as she worries her lip between her teeth.

“I asked her to look into your father. I just needed to know that Mya wasn’t bullshitting me.”

“What did Mya tell you exactly?”

Even as Gendry frees her lip with his thumb, disquiet still colors his expression.

Arya wants nothing more than to wipe it away. She figures the first step to doing that is telling him everything she knows.

Gendry listens without interruption but his irritation grows, muted disgust passing across his face each and every time Arya mentions either Robert or his lawyers. She’s barely done when he runs his fingers through his hair and lets out frustrated growl; one she feels in the shift of his body beneath hers.

“Mya doesn’t know the half of it,” he says with little else but anger, “I reached out to Robert once, when my mom died. I was still a minor. I didn’t want to but my case worker convinced me it would be better if I tried to stay with family.”

“What happened?”

“What do you think?”

Gendry lets out a humorless smirk, somehow sounding both incensed and wistful.

“He wrote me a check, or I should say his lawyers did. I never heard from him directly. The look of pity on my case worker’s face when she figured out what happened – it made me hate him so much, I let it push me away from home. I let it convince me that I had no real chance at family. Even years later, when Mya or Bella or Edric reached out, I just couldn’t bring myself to entertain what they had to say.”

It might be the most words he’s ever spoken to her at once, but Arya knows instinctively that Gendry isn’t done; not with the guilt dulling his eyes.

“Being with you was the first time I let myself truly live. For once, I didn’t worry about what I was doing or where I was going next.”

He sits up so abruptly, Arya would lose her balance if it weren’t for how closely he holds her.

“When I saw Mya at the bar, I felt like it –, _you_ were going to get ripped away from me, so I overreacted. I let my anger cloud my judgment, and you don’t deserve someone like that. You deserve someone better, Arya. Someone who wouldn’t just abandon –”

Arya feels his conviction in both his expression and how swiftly his hands withdraw from her body, but she refuses to let him go.

“No.”

It’s miraculous to her that after what just happened – after everything they’ve gone through – he would shelve his feelings aside just to put her first. The revelation alone proves that he’s wrong, so very wrong about what she needs.

“I deserve someone who cared enough to ask the right questions.”

She matches his certainty in spades.

“Who saw that I was grieving and let me do it on my own time. Someone who challenged me to find my voice again and use it.”

Gendry tries to look away but she draws him back by his jaw.

“I deserve someone who showed up here not knowing how I was going to react and had enough courage to apologize. I know the kind of man I deserve, Gendry, and I’m looking at him.”

She can see that some part of him remains unconvinced, but he still turns his head and presses his lips into her wrist with a reverence that jolts her heart.

“Your writing led me back to you, you know,” he says with an affectionate smile.

“The interview you did for _North Star Gazette_. I came across it randomly, on a bus stop of all places. I never went back to Last Hearth because I thought I had fucked things up too badly, but as soon as I read what you said, I knew I had to do something. Even if you didn’t want me back, I knew I couldn’t run anymore. Not from you or from my family.”

“Does that mean you signed the papers?” Arya asks, not yet able to truly process the enormity of his other confessions.

“Yeah I did. I don’t want Robert’s money. I never did. But Barra, shit, if I had just known sooner, I would –“

Arya can see where his mind is headed, a place of regret and guilt that’s entirely too familiar to her, and somewhere she doesn’t want him to go.

“I spent a year of my life stuck,” she interrupts with a finger to his lips.

“Fixated on the past. Tormenting myself over something I couldn’t change. But if I had handled things differently, who knows if I would have ever ended up meeting you. So as painful as it was, I can’t regret any of it, and neither should you.”

There will surely be moments when her heart will clench painfully at the thought of her father but it doesn’t take away from the truth, or from the thrill she feels when Gendry leans up to kiss her.

It’s quick but her lips still reel from the taste of him, the feel of him as he rests his forehead against hers and breathes her in.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I never thought about settling down, but –“

His voice trails off then and Arya doesn’t need her pulse spiking at a nearly unhealthy rate to know that this is a defining moment.

“But what, Gendry?”

Her impatience only makes him smile, a kiss dropped to her cheek before he looks at her with an offer swimming in his cerulean gaze.

“There’s a book tour coming up for you; an international one if I remember correctly. And well, I’ve never been to Essos.”

And as overwhelmingly wonderful as his words are, there’s still a part of her that needs to level set, to put everything out into the open, because she’s not getting hurt again. Not like before.

“It’s only a few months, though. And then I’m back in Winterfell or maybe even here. I haven’t figured it out yet, but I know I want to stay put for a while.”

Gendry doesn’t seem to need more than that.

“That’s alright, I’ll follow you anywhere,” he promises and Arya believes him.

And she could tell him so, but the urge to _show_ him just like he did before wins out.

She leans down to kiss him, slow, soft, and utterly perfect.

When she pulls away, Gendry’s eyes still so blue and now equally redolent with love send a strange sort of giddiness through her.

“I can’t believe I am in love with someone this hot,” she tells him with a playful smile stretching her well-kissed lips.

It’s meant to be half in jest but her breath still catches in her throat as Gendry kisses the space between her breasts, lingering there as he counts every ridge of her spine.

“We should do it in front of a mirror then, so you can see exactly why I share that sentiment.”

“Since when are you so eloquent?”

Her easy jab doesn’t deter Gendry whatsoever, not in using those well-honed muscles of his to lift and pull her underneath him, and not in rubbing his beard languidly along her sensitive skin.

“If I’m going to date a famous author,” he grins before dipping down to hover right above her mouth, “I have to be well read.”

It’s quite possibly the cheesiest thing Arya’s ever heard, but she lets it be, welcoming his kiss instead.

After all, every good writer knows when there’s no use trying to control the narrative.

xxx

_North Star Gazette: You mentioned a direction change for this sequel. Can you tell us a bit about that?_

_Arya Stark: Sure. In my original draft, Elenei and her friends took off again after she reclaimed her home but it just never felt quite right. I wasn’t sure how to pivot until I got some really good advice._

_NSG: What kind of advice?_

_Arya Stark: Let’s just say, much like Elenei, I wasn’t expecting to meet people who would make me think differently about things like grief, family, love. One person in particular made me question whether I was really living or just going through the motions. Once I figured out where I stood on that, it was impossible not to have that spill over into my writing. I’m pretty happy with how it ended up._

_NSG: Oh, this person must be someone special then._

_Arya Stark: He is, and I hope he knows that once this novel is published, an autographed **hardcopy** will be waiting for him. Should he ever want it._

xxx


End file.
